Take Your Life and Light it Up
by winter machine
Summary: A health issue for Derek's mother sends Derek, Meredith, and Zola back east for the first time into the heart of the extended Shepherd family. When his mother requests an unexpected surgeon, Derek will also need to open the door to his past and try to fit all the pieces together. Set during Season 9 with some pre-show AU parts. Very MerDer. Almost finished & updated May 22!
1. circle

**A/N:** Starting a new story with so many open ones? It's my favorite. MerDers, this one's for you. We're starting from my favorite scenario: Meredith and Derek are together and progressing on the show's basic timeline, including adopting the world's cutest baby. (Can you tell I'm very enamored of Season 8 right now?) Mark and Addison stayed together after Derek moved away and Addison kept the baby. Everything else is up for grabs. As you'll see from this chapter, Meredith and Derek will be telling this story - maybe with some help from Mark and Addison; I haven't decided. This story will feature the extended Shepherd family. And lots and lots of MerDerZola; as this chapter will suggest, I'm kind of in love with the three of them together.

You should have some questions when you're done with this chapter and if you want to know the answers, then I'll keep writing. Deal?

* * *

 _ **Take Your Life and Light it Up**_

 ** _..._**

 _You think that true love is the only thing that can crush your heart, that will take your life and light it up or destroy it. Then ... you become a mother._ (Meredith Grey)

* * *

"I just think it's strange." Derek glances at his wife, who is seated cross-legged on the carpet. "You don't think it's strange?"

Meredith reaches out to accept the cup of imaginary tea Zola has just poured for her, thanking her daughter effusively, and then takes a sip with gusto. "Mmm … caffeine."

Derek leans over to whisper so Zola won't hear him. "You do know that's not actually tea."

"I'm aware. _That's_ how much I miss caffeine."

"Daddy," Zola pats his leg. "Your turn."

He holds out his teacup and she pours him a generous serving of air. "Careful," she warns him. "Hot."

Making it a point to blow on the imaginary tea first, he takes a small sip. "Delicious, Zo."

She beams, then turns away to do something that looks complicated with two little pink serving platters. Meredith watches her, then turns her attention back to Derek.

"Strange that your sister called?"

"Not strange that my sister called. Well, a little strange that my sister called."

"Strange that your mother called."

"Not strange that my mother called. Well, a little – Meredith, you know what I mean."

She nods. "Strange that your mother wants your ex-wife to perform surgery on her?"

"That's the one."

Zola turns around and Derek smiles at her, holding out his hand. "Did you make us something?"

"Not yet. Wait," Zola instructs, and turns back to her trays.

"Mer…"

"Hang on, she's doing the thing with the plates."

Derek turns to watch.

"Why is she cutest right before bed?"

"It's ingenious."

"But it's also a little evil."

"True."

"Meredith…"

"Right." She pauses. "… is it strange? You want a wife answer to that, or a surgeon answer?"

"Both," he decides.

"Not at all … and maybe a little." She pauses. "Reverse that order."

Maybe she's right, and it's not that strange. He's seen Addison and Mark a few times over the years, since the divorce that was the smoothest of bumps in his road to happiness on the opposite side of the country. Addison's flown out to Seattle more than once to perform one of her delicate fetal surgeries as a favor to Richard. His niece Clara insisted on inviting them to their wedding – Addison was always her favorite – and they brought a friendly toddler who made it difficult to avoid them and harder to hold a grudge. When was that – three years ago now? Four? So they didn't exactly bond, but it's not like they haven't spoken.

He doesn't think she'll hang up on him, it's not that, but asking a favor – particularly when that favor means enmeshing with his family – feels weighty. Even when he knows Amy, with whom he hasn't spoken in years now, was actually living with them at one time. Okay, maybe _especially_ the thing with Amy. It's all civil except the one-

"Derek?"

"Yeah."

"Patients have interesting requests sometimes." Meredith shrugs. "I just don't think it's that strange. And didn't you tell me once that she delivered some of your nieces and nephews?"

"That's true." He nods. "And she operated on my Aunt Vi about … ten years ago, now. Same procedure. My aunt was frightened, and it went well, so I guess my mother's remembering that."

"It makes sense." Meredith rests a hand on her arm. "Surgery is scary, even if you've given birth to two surgeons."

"Nancy would say three, there _is_ a surgical component to OB/GYN."

"Well…. I guess I can fight that out with her."

"What do you mean?"

"When I see her. Derek, we're going to fly out there … right?"

"Do we have to?"

Meredith nods. "I think we have to. You're going to ask Addison to operate on your mother but you won't fly to New York for the surgery?"

"Addison is … local."

"But it's your mother."

"I love my mother. You know that. It's just complicated."

"Mothers are always complicated."

"Not Zola's," he counters and she leans forward to kiss him.

"Daddy – eat this, yum," Zola orders, apparently finally finished with her creation, and as soon as their lips separate, she hands him a portion of air.

"Ooh, thank you, Zo. Cookie?" Derek guesses, closing his hand around the imaginary treat.

"No."

He pretends to sniff the offering. "Hmm. Cake."

"No."

"Okay … I give up. What is it?"

"Carrots," Zola says firmly.

"Oh, she is definitely your daughter," Meredith laughs, then glances at the time. "Hey, Chef Zo … it's bedtime."

"No. Five minutes." Zola holds up an imperious little hand and Meredith laughs in spite of herself.

"Who does that remind you of?" she whispers to Derek.

He stands and then leans down to give Meredith a hand up.

"Hey, I'm not _that_ big," she protests, although she lets him help her up. "Not yet."

She leans back against his chest when she's standing and he wraps his arms around her. "Tired?" he asks, sweeping some of her hair aside and bending to kiss the side of her neck.

"Depends." She turns her head to look up at him.

"On what?"

"On why you're asking." She grins. "I'm too tired to do the dishes and I am definitely too tired to put away all two hundred pieces of the tea set but I might not be too tired for…"

"What if I'm not in the mood?"

"That would never happen."

"It might happen after I make this call."

Meredith shakes her head. "But medically speaking…she's okay. Right?"

"Right. Well," he pauses, "medically speaking, she does need the surgery, but she's a conservative 1B. Really more like 1A. I've seen her records. But she's having surgery."

"She's having surgery," Meredith agrees, "and we should be there."

"We should be there," he echoes, hoping it will feel like the right thing if he just says it out loud.

"Okay." Meredith turns around in his arms. "So I'll put Zola to bed, and _you_ make that call."

Derek squats down to urge Zola to bed and then glances up at Meredith. "I love my mother," he says that.

"Derek, I know that." Her tone is gentle, understanding.

"But it's not just her, you know? It's not just my mother. It's never just one person with my family. They … descend, like locusts." He makes his hands into flying things and uses them to tickle Zola, who shrieks with laughter.

Scooping her up, he stands and grins at Meredith. "This little girl seems awake. Maybe I should wait to make that call."

"Nice try." Meredith holds out her arms. "Come on, Zo, Mommy's going to read you _two_ princess stories with questionable gender roles."

"Three," Zola challenges.

"Good girl, never accept a first offer," Derek nods, and Meredith lifts her out of Derek's arms and onto her hip.

"Be careful," he admonishes, resting a hand on her back.

"Derek, I'm pregnant, not injured."

He kisses Zola's soft cheek. "Good night, sweetie." He shifts his gaze. "Mer…"

"Go call," she says firmly. "And good luck. And be nice."

"I'm always nice," he calls after her.

...

He procrastinates by washing the dishes, and not hurrying either, but once the sink is empty he figures it's now or never. She never changed her cell number, as far as he can tell, and once 917 became a commodity he assumed she never would. It takes four rings for her to answer.

"Derek?"

Admittedly, he hasn't changed his cell either. She sounds like he's catching her in the middle of something. Maybe he should have emailed first.

"Addison. Hi. Can you … talk for a second?"

Static interrupts whatever she says next.

"Addison – are you there?" No answer. "Addison?"

"I'm here."

"Do you –"

"I can talk," she says, sounding somewhat garbled. "Sorry, I'm-" But whatever she wanted to say is cut off when more static interferes.

"This connection is terrible. Where are you, Antarctica?"

He doesn't hear anything. "Addison?"

"Sorry, … here. … not great." He only hears every other word or so, but assumes she's talking about their bad connection. He could hang up, but … the static starts to clear, so he goes on.

"It's actually about my mother. She's okay," he says quickly, "they caught it very early, but my mother's scheduled for surgery at Memorial-St. Catherine's next week-"

"How did you know?"

Derek's confused at her question, wondering if maybe he misheard it.

"How did I know?" He repeats. She doesn't correct him. "Uh … Liz called me."

The static is suddenly much lessened and he can hear confusion in her voice when she responds.

"Liz called you? Liz knows?"

"Addison … I don't understand. Of course Liz knows that my mother needs surgery, yes. And she knows my mother asked for you, but Liz hasn't talked to you so she thought I should call. I'm sorry, I should have emailed first."

Silence.

"Addison?"

"Sorry. I … misunderstood, before." She pauses. "What did you say?"

Officially confused now, he repeats his request. "I know it's … a little unorthodox, but if you still have privileges at MSC, I know it would mean a lot to her."

"Oh." She pauses. "I've … sort of scaled back."

He wasn't expecting that, Addison was never really the scaling-back type. Then again, he never knew her with a child. "Does that mean that you…"

"I don't know. I would need to – sorry, can you hold on a second?"

"Sure."

Silence, minimal static, and the seconds tick by. Absently he lowers to his knees on the floor and starts organizing Zola's tea set.

"Derek, you still there?"

"I'm still here."

"It's not emergent, right?"

"No, it's not. She's on the schedule for next week. I didn't mean to spring it on you." He examines the pink-printed pattern on the sugar bowl.

"No, that's not it, just –" a loud sound interrupts them. "I have to go, Derek, I'm sorry," and then he's just listening to dead air.

...

"That was fast," Meredith looks up when she sees him in the doorway, propped on the fluffy little pink bed with a sleepy – but awake – Zola nestled against her. "We're only one princess in."

"Yeah."

He leans against the doorframe and can't help smiling, never tiring of the sight of the two of them together. His eyes skate down Meredith's narrow frame, resting on the slight – but noticeable – swell of her belly.

The three of them, that's what they'll be, soon.

"So? How did it go?"

Derek considers the question. The static, the silence, Addison's confusing answers, and her abrupt farewell, and tries to figure out how to answer.

"It was … strange," he says.

* * *

 _To be continued? Please let me know what you think and if you're interested in more!_


	2. wires and waves

**_A/N:_ ** Thank you so much for the great response! I'm so glad to hear people are interested in reading this story. I'm enjoying writing it and it's moving quickly - chapter 3 will be up this weekend. Please keep letting me know what you think; I want you to enjoy the story as much as I am! Everyone had great questions, and of course it's only chapter 2, so it's not exactly an answer zone yet. Be patient with me and all will be revealed. Enjoy...

* * *

 _wires and waves  
..._

* * *

The next few days pass quickly.

Addison doesn't call him back, but he can't spare much time to think about it; he's too busy with all the little tasks that have spread out of taking a block of time off work: rescheduling procedures, moving patients through post-op, coordinating supervision of his fellows, and making sure the department will run smoothly in his absence. He does try her cell after their aborted phone call, twice; it goes straight to voicemail each time. When Liz asks him if he's spoken with Addison, he tries her once more, by email this time, even padding his normally terse style with the most gracious request he can type to follow up with him.

And then he moves on.

He's already spending far more time on the phone, and sending emails, than he normally would, and although he wants his mother to feel comfortable, the change in routine hasn't been easy. He's spoken more with his sisters in the last 72 hours than he has in longer than he can count: logistics dominate these calls and online communications as they plan for their mother's surgery and recovery. His life is already a delicate balance, with the hours not in surgery belonging to Meredith and Zola. He wants a pink flowered teacup in his hand, not a cell phone; he wants to soak up every minute with his daughter that he can and when she's asleep, he wants to stretch out in bed with his wife and take turns talking to the baby growing inside her, waiting for their child to kick. And he also wants …

Well, he wants a lot of things, and talking to his sisters isn't high on the list.

"Was that Liz?" Meredith asks when he hangs up the phone and drops it into the cradle with slightly more force than necessary.

"Nancy." Derek sets his cell phone on the kitchen island too, willing it not to ring again. "Sorry, that went longer than I expected. Is she…"

"She's asleep. She's also wearing a tiara which I was afraid to move because … she's asleep."

"I wanted to kiss her goodnight." He can't hide the disappointment in his tone.

"You still can," Meredith smiles at him, "just don't wake her up when you do it or you're in charge of putting her back down. And, Derek … put those brain surgeon hands to good use and take off the tiara so she doesn't roll over on it."

"On it."

She stops him on his way to Zola's bedroom, pulling him down for a kiss, which he gratefully obliges.

"I'm just tired," he says in response to her unspoken question. Wordlessly, he gestures at the phone, and she gets it.

"It's temporary," she reminds him, the small hand she rests on his arm sympathetic, and he nods. She's right. This chaos, this change - ... it's temporary.

This, what's around him now, the home and family they built together?

That's permanent.

 **….**

It's complicated, though. It's always complicated.

There are the family arrangements, the coordination among four siblings who don't speak on a regular basis. Well, three – he hasn't talked to Kathleen; she's usually one to lie low. And Amy … the less said about her, the better. If Liz is in contact with her, she hasn't brought it up.

But then there are the travel arrangements, which are complicated in a different way. He brings them up tentatively, at first, Meredith seemingly on board although she does request that they fly coach, taking the opportunity to rib him a little in the process. Carefully, he offers to let her choose their seats, and refrains from comment once she has.

"Are you sure-"

"It was my idea to fly out there," Meredith reminds him. "You're kind of _my_ plus-one here."

He smiles, then can't help taking her face gently between his palms. "But you'll tell me, Mer, if…"

"I'll tell you. I'm getting good at telling you, aren't I?"

"You're getting better," he acknowledges, and she makes a face at him, and then his phone rings … again. He doesn't have time for anything more than a quick kiss before he has to turn away to take another call about his mother.

 **...**

"I'm sorry," Meredith says gravely from behind him the night before they're scheduled to fly to New York. He's elbow deep in the dresser, packing.

He turns around with a shirt in his hands. "You're sorry? For what?"

"I'm practicing," she explains, "for when your family hates me."

"Meredith. We have talked about this. My family is going to love you. My family _does_ love you."

"Mm, I'm still not so sure."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm not exactly family-friendly," Meredith explains. "And that's why I'm going to go with the apology first."

"But apologizing for what?"

"For making you move to Seattle … for not letting you call your mother … for refusing to go back east for Christmas … "

"But you didn't do any of those things," he says, confused.

"Right, you know that and I know that, but _she_ will think I did."

"Meredith." He shakes his head. "My mother is going to love you. My mother _already_ loves you; she's met you, remember?"

"She met me for about five minutes at your niece's wedding and it was total chaos."

True. It had unexpectedly rained during Clara's beach wedding, resulting in wet dresses and ruined hors d'oeuvres – which, at the time, they thought would be the most memorable thing about the wedding. Derek's mother's attention was already divided that day; there was Clara, the bride, his mother's thirteen other grandchildren, and of course the unexpected guest. As a result, his mother had had barely any time with Meredith. And of course by the end of the night, no one was having much conversation at all.

"Well, lucky for you, five minutes is exactly how long it takes to fall in love with you. Or did you forget the bar?"

"I did not forget the bar. But I think you're the one who got lucky that night."

He chuckles, but she still looks doubtful.

"My mother is easy," he assures her. "Really. She's always liked my girlfriends."

"How many other girlfriends has she met?"

"Well … mainly just the one," Derek admits. "You know high school was rough for me."

"Aw." Meredith stands on her toes to kiss him and he sets down the shirt he's been holding so he can catch her around the waist, lifting her off her feet to do the rest of the work. "You know I would have dated you in high school if I could have," she says.

"And _you_ know that would have been extremely disturbing, if not illegal."

She laughs against his lips. "Well, _you_ know that's not what I meant."

"No?" He turns to lower her gently until she's lying on her back on the bed, then suspends himself over her with his weight on his forearms, his tone teasing. "Then maybe you should say what you mean."

"Derek, your mother…"

"Oh, that's really not your best pillow talk."

She laughs in spite of herself, turning her head away and giving him excellent access to her neck.

"I'm telling you, everyone who doesn't already love you is going to love you, and even if they don't…." He kisses a trail down deliciously warm skin, "…then I will love you enough for all of them."

"Well, if you're going to say things like that," she twines her arms around his neck, arching up against him with promise, "I guess you're going to get lucky tonight too."

 **….**

"How does someone so small have so much stuff?" Meredith stares at the assembled bags the next evening as they prepare to leave for the airport: small overnight bags for her and for Derek, and an enormous amount of Zola-centric luggage. It's not that she didn't pack the bags, it's just that they didn't seem so … voluminous until she saw them all sitting together on the floor by the front door.

Derek glances over. "It's fine, we'll check it all."

"But she needs things for the flight."

"Then we'll check _our_ stuff and … Mer, does she really need an entire bag of books?"

"I don't want to neglect her reading. And if she asks for one in particular and we don't have it…."

"…fair point. Okay, then. What about this huge tub of crayons?"

"She's particular about shades of pink," Meredith reminds him. "Remember the flamingo incident?"

He nods, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. "So we'll pay overage fees."

"Good thinking," Meredith says, lifting Zola to the couch. "Come on, Zo Zo – time for shoes."

"No, thank you," Zola responds, removing her little foot from her mother's hand.

"Okay, that was very polite _but_ I wasn't actually making a request," Meredith laughs. "You can't go to the airport in socks, sweetie."

Zola just leans back and kicks her be-socked feet into the air happily. The socks in question are bright pink with yellow polka-dots, and they're admittedly mesmerizing. Meredith watches her for a moment, holding one impossibly tiny, stretchy pink sneaker in her hand.

Through a combination of trickery and bribery, Zola's shoes make it onto her feet and all three Grey-Shepherds make it into Derek's car.

They're playing music for Zola, who already looks sleepy – hopefully a good sign for their flight – as they make their way to the airport. Meredith, who has been alternately fiddling with the climate control and turning around to check on or chat with Zola, turns to her husband.

"Derek…"

He glances over quickly, keeping most of his gaze on the road. "Don't," he says firmly.

"You don't know what I was going to say," she protests.

"Oh, but I do. It was going to be something about how my f-a-m-i-l-y isn't going to love you."

"Why are you spelling it out? Family isn't a d-i-r-t-y word," Meredith says, puzzled.

"You have no idea how thrilled I am to hear you say that," he deadpans, and she can't help laughing. Zola, in the backseat, claps her hands in response.

…

"Remind me why we thought the redeye was a good idea," Meredith whispers in his ear.

"So Zola would sleep," he recites dutifully.

Together they turn their gaze to the little girl between them, who is wide awake, cheerfully sucking on a purple lollipop and coloring enthusiastically on the plane's emergency escape guide.

"We should probably offer to pay for that," Meredith points out after a moment, lightly touching the pink scrawl decorating a step by step photograph of the plane's flotation devices.

Derek takes her hand. "I'm sure they have spares."

"Yeah." She shifts away and pulls her legs up under her, all of her fitting easily in the narrow seat, and Derek smiles.

"I wish I had that much room," he comments lightly.

"I'm sorry I didn't want to fly in the fancy section," she says, not sounding very sorry at all.

"No, you're not. But it's okay."

"Well, there are no rows of three in first class," she reminds him.

"And no seats over the wing," he suggests gently.

She busies herself organizing the crayons that are starting to roll off Zola's tray table.

"Mer … it's okay." He reaches behind Zola's little back to touch his wife's shoulder.

"It's okay," she repeats, her gaze unfocusing and then refocusing. "I know." She pauses. "Just because some people think they can't fit in coach seats," she adds, her tone much lighter now.

He lets her change the topic without pushing. "Okay, let's be fair, you and Zola are both quite a bit smaller than the average flyer."

Meredith glances down to where her legs are tucked under her with room to spare, Zola's pink stuffed unicorn comfortable seated next to the arm rest. "I see your point … but at least this way we all get to be together."

"Now that's a reason I can get behind."

It's true, he'll suffer through a lot more than narrow seats with armrests that cut into his side, gluey mystery meat dinners, and a long line for the bathroom.

Well, the line did magically get shorter when Zola started singing her potty song at a volume audible to most of the plane and, Derek thinks, possibly most of the continental United States.

"You sleep, I'll hang out with her."

" _You_ sleep, I'll hang out with her."

He knows she won't sleep. "Meredith…"

"Look!" Zola, beaming, holds out the emergency exit guide, where she's scrawled a pretty decent impression of the letter Z.

"Great job, Zo!" Meredith

"We're both going to stay up, aren't we," Meredith smiles at him.

"It's her first flight," he says.

"So we're all going to stay up."

"Including me, if you're going to keep talking," groans a complaining voice from the row in front of theirs, and Meredith has to cover her mouth tightly to stifle her laughter.

Derek watches her carefully; he's happy to see her laughing, to see her seemingly relaxed – Zola's presence, her warm and loving little presence, has done that from the beginning, even when parenting her was two parts mystery to one part sheer terror for both of them.

It's probably fine. Until he thinks he hears a slight change in her breathing, and then he gives her a quizzical look.

"Derek … I'm fine," she says firmly.

"I know you're fine." He glances down at Zola's tray table. "Pass me the blue crayon so I can help her get this thing a little more colorful."

….

When Zola finally dozes off with her head in Meredith's lap, and the plane is dark and still with most of its occupants either sleeping or trying to, Meredith turns her head to him to speak softly.

"You still haven't heard from Addison?"

"No."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I've already emailed her. I left a voicemail." He tries to remember when he last sought her consult. More than a year ago, probably - or was it two? But she was definitely more responsive than this.

"Maybe she's busy."

"I'm sure she's busy," he says. "We're all busy, but it's strange. She's a surgeon, she always has her devices turned on."

Meredith considers this. "You think she's avoiding you, or your … family?"

She doesn't have to say _after what happened the last time she saw them._

"But we've been in touch since then. You remember the newborn with the invasive mass … the one who was turned down by Mayo? She consulted on that case. If she doesn't want to operate on my mother, she could just get back to me and say so."

Meredith nods.

"I would leave it alone, but Liz says my mother is insisting." He winces a bit remembering her plaintive tone. "I mean, it's a routine procedure that Addison could do in her sleep. But if it makes my mother more comfortable…"

"…then it's worth trying," Meredith nods. "I understand. So you'll keep trying."

"So I'll keep trying," he agrees. "But I want to get settled first."

 _Settled_ into the non-settled apartment he's rented short term for their use, as close to the hospital as his agent could find without moving into an on-call room. Intellectually, he's prepared to leave behind the healing green woods around their lovingly built home, prepared to fit himself back into the narrow concrete strips of Manhattan.

Or try to fit himself, anyway. He's not sure he ever did really fit.

 **….**

"Welcome to New York City, folks!"

The Captain's cheery voice startles him out of a restless slumber – Derek's been an early riser his whole life, but still, no one should be that chipper at this hour. Then again, if someone's going to be hyper-alert, the man in control of the plane seems like the right choice.

He checks next to him immediately; last time he looked, Meredith was resting slightly against the sloped wall of the cabin, reading to Zola, who was cuddled into her side. Now his wife and daughter are both buckled straight up in their seats, holding hands, Meredith speaking quietly to their daughter.

"I fell asleep?" He mumbles it as a half-question.

"You fell asleep." Meredith looks over and smiles at him. "Good job," she says quietly.

"And now we're here." He leans as much as his seat belt will allow, pausing to give Zola a kiss, to peer out the window at the familiar spires of the city, dark against the greyish morning sky. Even the water looks grey as they close in on the island. They're doing the scenic landing this morning; he glances at Meredith but she's deep in conversation with Zola again. He strokes the top of his daughter's head with one hand, massaging the crick in his neck with the other.

So now they're here.

"It's a pleasant seventy-seven degrees on the ground at JFK right now heading for a high of eighty-six. And I won't tell you the humidity because you'll figure it out as soon as you leave the AC. Those of you on return trips, welcome home," the Captain's booming voice echoes through the cabin again. "For the rest of you, a few things to remember while you're here: jaywalking will get you a fine, give up your seats on the subway to people who need 'em, and most importantly … our bark is worse than our bite. You're gonna do fine."

… _let's hope so, anyway._

* * *

 **TBC. Next chapter up by this weekend. _Please review and let me know what you think!_** _...And may your weekend be as happy as Derek was when Bailey showed him how to fix Zola's hair. :) :)_


	3. marching bands of manhattan

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the feedback! Especially you anonymice because I can't PM you. But I appreciate it so much, and I know I'm updating at a ridiculous pace but I'm super into this story right now, so it's just kind of pouring out. I love hearing you thoughts and I hope you'll keep sharing them. Enjoy...

* * *

 _marching bands of manhattan  
..._

* * *

"I can't believe you lived here."

Meredith's head is tipped back slightly, taking in the view of the block they'll call home for the next two weeks.

"Well, I didn't live _right_ here, but I wanted to make it easy for us to get to the hospital."

Derek would never want to live in this city again, but he's called some of the most architecturally beautiful parts of Manhattan home in the past; here, the blocks adjacent to Memorial-St. Catherine's and its unmatched oncology services, it's an uninspired clump of sixties mid-rises, some of which seem to be in the process of being torn down to create unnaturally _high_ rises.

"We're only a block and a half from the hospital," he reminds her. "Plus, there's an elevator for my mom, and for the stroller, a doorman for when we order Chinese food – that, I do miss," he admits, "a playroom for Zola because apparently that's a thing now, and …. " He turns his head slightly to make sure he's seeing correctly. "And a bodega right on the corner for all our other needs."

"What needs are those?"

"Coffee," he suggests.

"You're just rubbing it in now," she accuses him with a playful shove.

"Water, then. And toilet paper," he adds, "because I have no idea how much these people left for us. Paper towel for all of Zola's best spilling projects. And those little roach poison things, because it's still Manhattan no matter how much they gouged me on rent."

"Derek … you're going to make a girl swoon at this rate." She's laughing.

"And there's this," he gestures to the doorman's rolling cart, and starts loading their bags from the sidewalk. It's hot … and getting hotter, steam practically rising from the surface of the pavement.

Zola, who was sleepy at baggage claim but perked up during the taxi ride, places one foot on the luggage cart and tries to climb on. Derek laughs and lifts her into the air.

"Are you a suitcase? Because you don't look like a suitcase."

She grabs his face with both her hands, giggling, and he kisses her forehead. He can't get enough of her. And even with all the stresses this trip to Manhattan is likely to bring … it's still two weeks with no work. No surgeries – none that he has to perform, anyway – no pagers, no intern screw-ups to worry about, no attendings complaining about their residents. Just his family - just Meredith and Zola, the family he's never brought back east.

 _Back east._ Nancy had paused, on the phone, when he said that, and he could just hear her judging him down the line. _Since when do you say back east, Derek? That's what people from the west coast say._ He'd taken a deep breath; it was a sensitive time, he knew that, and Nancy had been dealing with boots on the ground, but … _I'm a person from the west coast, Nance,_ and he said it without any malice but he could tell she was hurt anyway.

It's one of those unfair things in life – when the best thing that ever happens to you hurts someone else, unintentionally.

He gives Zola a squeeze and sets her back down. "Just – hold her hand, don't let her get too close to the curb."

"Derek," Meredith frowns at him. "I've got it."

"I know, I know." He sighs. "But between the taxis and all the bikes – well, you've been to Manhattan, Mer."

"Sure," she says, "but it was a long time ago, and somehow – even though I wasn't s-o-b-e-r for more than ten minutes the whole time, I managed to avoid the hospital. And this whole … neighborhood, I guess."

"You didn't miss much," he responds, and finishes loading the cart. Meredith lifts Zola to her hip – _What?_ She mouths to him when he starts to say something, and he shakes his head, just lets them walk ahead of him as he pushes the cart into the mercifully air-conditioned lobby.

…

He glances around the apartment as the door closes behind them with a decisive metallic click. It's … sterile, a little corporate, and a bit more run down than he expected. Maybe it's from building the house in Seattle, or maybe it's the frequent redecoration he still remembers from his marriage to Addison, but he expected the space to have been renovated a little more recently.

"Sorry about this…"

Meredith cocks her head; she's sitting cross-legged on the floor, removing Zola's shoes and socks and pausing to tickle each toe.

"Derek, it's fine. It's just two weeks. Really ... it's great."

"My room!" Zola bolts off as soon as she's barefoot, apparently in search of where she'll be sleeping.

"Hang on, Zo, wait for Mommy." Meredith heads in the same direction as their daughter, and Derek follows. They find her attempting to clamber onto the big bed in one of the bedrooms. Derek gives her a boost and then Zola flops onto her belly, resting her head on the comforter.

"Is someone actually _volunteering_ to nap?" Derek rubs her little back and Zola doesn't even try to deny it. Apparently flying wore her out.

Meredith sits down on the bed next to them.

"We don't have anything on the schedule until dinner, right?"

"Right." He nods. "We're meeting Nancy and Steve tonight. Mom's not coming into the city until tomorrow for her last pre-op appointment; Lizzie's going to bring her. And after that …"

"…and after that, she stays with us."

"Right." He glances over at her. "Thank you, again, for being so nice about this."

"You don't have to thank me." She leans forward and kisses him. "I mean, you can ... but you don't have to."

They take their cue from Zola. Jet lag be damned – or be in charge – either way, the three of them sack out together on top of the covers in the master bedroom and neither Derek nor Meredith sets an alarm as they try to catch up on the night of lost sleep spent flying across the country.

...

Zola wakes up confused and a little surprised; Derek stands with her at the window, cuddling her and pointing out the view in the tone that usually soothes her – a grey East river, mostly, and beyond it, Queens, the building slashed with sunlight – until she stops fussing once Meredith sets her up with a snack. They sit together in the little kitchen, Zola much more cheerful now, carrying on a monologue that's about sixty percent decipherable, and a hundred percent adorable.

"What time are we meeting your sister?"

"Seven." Derek grimaces slightly; he can tell Nancy hasn't had a toddler in a while, but they can always feed Zola first so she won't be cranky at the restaurant.

Briefly, Derek wonders if Nancy might have some insight on Addison's silence, or a better way to reach her – not by calling her herself, not after the last time, but with the overlap in their fields they know a lot of people in common.

"Derek." Meredith touches his arm and he can tell she knows what's bothering him. "What about calling Mark?"

Derek shakes his head. "I thought of that, but he seems to have a new cell number." It was the first time Derek tried calling him in years; it makes sense his number would have changed.

"You could try them at work. Call their departments and…." Her voice trails off.

"I could." He frowns. "But there's a line between seeking help and stalking and I guess I'm trying to stay on the right side of it."

She smiles slightly. "I think that's a good instinct."

"We'll talk to Nancy tonight, and tomorrow we'll see Mom and talk about it. I'm sure we can get her comfortable with another surgeon, even if it takes a little time."

Meredith nods.

"It's just …"

"…strange," she finishes for him.

"You don't think so?"

"There could be so many reasons," Meredith says. "I mean ... I'm supposed to be the pessimist, not you."

"Ah, but maybe I've been a good influence on you."

"Or the other way around."

He laughs at that and kisses her.

"I'm sure it's fine," he says finally, half to convince himself. He smiles at Meredith. "Hey … you want to go out and explore?"

"Sure," she says easily, and he's reminded that her _game for anything_ face is one of the many things he loves about her.

…

"This isn't the most visitor-friendly neighborhood," he admits when they get out on the street. It's busy, lots of people on the sidewalk in both directions – talking, none too quietly; Zola stops walking a few feet from their building and holds her arms up to Meredith.

Derek winces. "I should have brought the stroller." He offers to take her, but Zola is clearly in a Mommy-mood and turns her head into Meredith's neck.

"I can go get the stroller," he offers.

"It's okay, Derek," Meredith rests a hand on his arm. "I can carry her. She's little."

"Well, so are you." He pauses. "If we're not getting the stroller then let's just stay close."

Meredith nods. "It smells … interesting," she comments as they walk, deftly sidestepping several overflowing black plastic bags.

"Ah." He glances around. "Garbage pickup tomorrow, I guess. I forgot how … fragrant that can get in the summer."

They walk slowly, the sun beating down on them from the perfect angle to make the back of his neck sweat. The air is still and heavy with humidity; every once in a while something akin to a breeze starts to move, but doesn't do much other than stir up the odors from the trash lining the curb.

As it turns out, they could use more toilet paper. And baby wipes. And coffee, for Derek, so he nixes the large Duane Reade three blocks away and brings his girls to the corner bodega instead.

"Candy store!"

Zola hasn't let the geographic differences get in the way of the brightly colored wrappings that speak a universe language to all children, and her mood brightens immediately. Derek pushes open the glass door, covered in peeling posters; the sound of bells chimes their welcome to the door. The two men behind the counter glance up without much interest; he can barely see them behind hanging strips of lottery tickets and piles of small snacks and trinkets.

It's bigger inside than he expected, with several narrow isles boasting randomly-ordered shelving. But they should be able to get what they need.

"Candy, Mommy!" Zola tugs at the collar of Meredith's lightweight shirt. "Please," she adds, lengthening the syllable considerably, and both Meredith and Derek both have to stifle laughter because their daughter's desperate pronunciation of the word _please_ is so dramatic – making it sounds like she's attempting to save her own life rather than procure a piece of candy.

"We're going to go find toilet paper first, because it doesn't cause cavities," Meredith says, smiling, shifting Zola on her other hip. "You going to help me, ZoZo?"

"And I'll get the poison stuff for the – things," Derek says.

"You were serious about that?"

"I'm always serious."

Meredith makes a face at him and then heads off with Zola down one of the narrow aisles. Roach poison, roach poison. Oh, how he doesn't miss the city. No matter how big the spiders are he's found in their house back home, at least he's never had to contemplate their impeccable post-nuclear survival rates.

Plus, the pictures on the box are just so _graphic._

He selects one without looking too closely, then grabs another for good measure.

Then he pauses to read the back, not sure he likes how childproof they are, and decides to check another brand. There's a half full plastic handbasket blocking his way now, though, and a tall man and a little girl with their backs to him standing in front of one of the displays.

A hand reaches up to take down a product he can't see, because he's suddenly distracted by the back of the man's sunglass-topped grey head. The little girl holding his other hand has very long and rather tangled dirty-blonde hair and a child-sized nylon drawstring backpack with a logo he doesn't recognize dangling from her narrow shoulders. They're both wearing shorts and flip flops, the man has a large canvas tote over one shoulder, and there's nothing particularly interesting about them except –

"Mark?" Derek's tone is incredulous when they both turn around.

For a moment the other man doesn't respond and Derek has a second where he wonders if he could be wrong – no, that's ridiculous - and then his eyes change with recognition.

"Derek," he says slowly, shaking his head, "…what are you doing in the city?"

Derek is surprised. "Addison didn't tell you we were coming?"

For a moment Mark's eyes flicker to the little girl holding his hand, then he looks back at Derek. "I must have forgotten," he says.

"You guys live around here?" Derek gestures doubtfully at the neighborhood outside the bodega. It's pretty off the beaten track, or at least low on the fancy factor.

"Uh … kind of, yeah."

"Daddy." The little girl tugs on the end of Mark's t-shirt and points to the dusty-looking gumball machine by the door. "Can I?"

"Sure." Mark fishes in his pocket for change. "Stay where I can see you," he instructs and she nods before flip-flopping her way to the machine.

"So, uh, how've you been?" Mark nods at Derek.

"I'm okay. I'm good." Derek studies his old friend as unobtrusively as he can. Now that he's getting a better look, it's not that surprising that he didn't fully recognize Mark at first. He's thinner than Derek's ever seen him and he's gone fully grey down to the mustache and beard on his face. He looks, frankly, exhausted, but Derek is sure he looks no better after a cross-country flight and will look worse once the baby's born and they go from minimal sleep to negative sleep.

Derek gestures generally toward Mark's daughter, wishing he could remember the child's name. "She's, uh, she's gotten so big," he says, knowing it sounds generic, but it's also accurate when he compares the lanky little girl to the pudgy toddler he vaguely remembers from California years ago.

She also looks a lot less put-together than he would have expected Addison's child to look, in a rather wrinkled t-shirt and shorts with messy hair, but then the last time he saw her was at a wedding, so it makes sense they'd be more done-up then.

"Viv? Yeah, she's tall." Mark's eyes are focused past Derek, presumably on his daughter.

Viv … Vivian, that's right. Derek remembers now, she must have been named for-

"So, they only have the other kind, with the stuff that – oh, hi," Meredith approaches with Zola on her hip, glancing at Derek when she sees he's in conversation.

"Hey," Derek says quickly, wrapping an arm around Meredith. "Look who I ran into."

Mark's looking at Zola now, his expression significantly warmer.

"I didn't know you had a kid." He smiles broadly at Derek. "That's great, man. Congratulations." Mark turns to Meredith and seems flustered for a moment, seemingly not remembering her name.

"Meredith," Derek says quickly, "you remember Mark Sloan, and Mark … this is our daughter Zola." Derek reaches for his daughter and props her in his arms.

"Hey, Zola." Mark bends his head a little to get on her level. " _You_ are extremely adorable. But you're probably sick of hearing that." His affectionate tone sounds genuine; he smiles at Zola with a wave and she gives him a little wave of her own in response and even a bonus shy grin before she leans her head into her father's shoulder.

"You have a kid," Mark repeats as he stands up again, still smiling; the smile makes him look younger and quite a bit more recognizable even with his unexpectedly gaunt face.

"I have a kid," Derek nods. "And another on the way," he can't help adding, gesturing in Meredith's direction.

"Yeah?" Mark looks from Derek to Meredith. "That's great news. Wow."

Meredith shakes her head, either a little embarrassed he's shared the news or just pretending to be, but she thanks Mark quietly in response.

"Great news. Yeah." Mark is looking past Derek again. "Siblings … are a good thing. Siblings are good."

"What about you guys," Derek starts to ask but he realizes he and Mark are talking at the same time, so he stops and lets the other man ask his question first.

Mark nods toward Derek and Meredith. "You in town for long?"

"Well, we came for my mother's…" Derek's voice trails off. From his expression, Mark has no idea what he's referencing. "Two weeks or so," he says instead, and Mark nods.

"Actually," Derek glances at Meredith. "I've been trying to reach Addison."

"Yeah?" Mark looks at his watch. "I'll let her know. Hey, Viv – come on, baby, we need to get going." He holds out his hand and the little girl trots back over, chewing what looks like a mouthful of multicolored gumballs.

"Good to see you, man. Both of you – all of you, I'm really glad you're doing well, and, uh, congratulations again," Mark takes his daughter's hand – stained pink, blue, and green from the gum – and leads her outside, the attached bells chiming their exit and muting the child's words as the door swings shut behind them.

When Derek looks he sees that Mark's half-full shopping basket is still sitting in front of the shelves where he first spotted him with his daughter.

They left all their items without buying anything.

Derek turns to Meredith and for a moment they just look at each other.

"Now, see … that?" Meredith gestures with her chin toward the door where Mark and his daughter exited. The chimes are still sounding, faintly. " _That_ was strange."

* * *

 _To be continued ... of course. Please review! It's the fuel that makes my fingers fly!_

 _Next chapter: dinner with the infamous Nancy, among other things... I have a thing for Nancy. And not just bc the actress was awesome. And not just because Nancypants is such an excellent nickname. So yeah, I don't really know why, but I do have a thing. And now I'm late to a party because I wanted to finish this chapter. Hashtag-priorities?_


	4. hometown glory

**A/N:** Thank you so much for all the great reviews and comments! This chapter's a little long, but Nancy does like to chatter...

* * *

 _hometown glory  
_...

* * *

"It's just going to be Nancy," Meredith confirms as they pile into the back seat of a taxi, Derek holding Zola on his lap. "Right?"

"Just Nancy," he reassures her.

They're en route to dinner with just one sister, but Derek's older sisters have always felt like a funhouse mirror, multiplying out to infinity with their chatter, their gossip, their blunt questions and their demands – and, when they all lived together, an absurd number of tiny hair clips and little beaded jewelry, shoes that all looked alike that they'd fight over …

Moving into the dorms his first year of college was something of a relief.

As adults, though, they did manage to form something akin to friendship. All of his older sisters have lived in Manhattan at some point, crossing over with him at various times in their shared professional lives, and they would socialize. Addison was particularly close to Nancy and Lizzie, and encouraged the friendships. That was years ago now; none of his sisters has lived in the city for a while. With his least prolific sister boasting four children and the other two five children each, Manhattan apartments became progressively less attractive. Kathleen and Liz have both escaped the city for the suburbs; Nancy stayed reasonably close in a Brooklyn brownstone with a rare backyard, and although Derek knows she has a decent amount of space, he also knows her anesthesiologist husband bears at least half the burden of sending their five children to private school.

He brings Meredith up to speed in shorthand, because shorthand is how he thinks of his sisters now. The time when their lives were enmeshed is a long time ago. There are so _many_ of them; he spent the first eight years of his life the cosseted baby brother dragged unwillingly into games of dolls, dress-up, imaginary tea party … he smiles a little bit at this memory; his sisters may be even more surprised than he was at first that there's nothing he enjoys more these days than a good imaginary tea party.

Well.

Nothing he'd share with his sisters, anyway.

"Okay." Meredith exhales slowly and deliberately. "Because I can't drink, so I'm kind of at a disadvantage."

He wraps an arm around her, pulling her close as the cab makes its way west. "Nancy will love you. Nancy will be on her best behavior."

"Really?"

"Well, the first part, yes," he admits, and she laughs.

...

Nancy and Steve beat them to the restaurant, a relatively generic café on Amsterdam near Nancy's upper west side office. It's not exactly convenient to the apartment Derek rented, but he's trying to stay on his sisters' good sides, and the longer cab ride seems to soothe Zola into half-sleep.

"Derek!" Nancy throws her arms around him and he hugs her back; she's the tallest of his sisters and relishes high heels anyway. "It's been so long." She draws back. "Too long."

"You promised no guilt until we eat," he reminded her.

"Fine." Nancy grins and turns to Meredith. "Ooh, look at you, you're already showing!" She pulls Meredith in for a warm embrace that makes Derek wince slightly on his wife's behalf, then holds her away by the shoulders to stare at her belly.

"How far are you now?"

"Almost fifteen weeks."

"Wow." Nancy rests a hand on her bump; Meredith's eyes widen slightly, but she permits it. "Everything measuring well, I trust?"

"Nancy," Derek chides gently.

"What?"

"Let's cut the shop talk for now," Nancy's husband, tall and affable, intercedes. He's a quiet man – the only kind who could live with his boisterous sister, Derek always thought, and a kind one, usually a calming presence.

"All right," Nancy sighs. "Can I at least get a look at my niece?" She beams when Derek rotates slightly so Nancy can see Zola's face. "Oh, Derek, she's just gorgeous. Look at that face. Honey," she nudges her husband, "remember when we had sweet babies, instead of terrible teenagers?"

Steve chuckles. "Why don't we all sit down," he suggests, and Derek is grateful for his brother-in-law.

"Can I hold her?" Nancy reaches for Zola, who turns and buries her face in her father's shoulder.

"She's a little tired." Derek smiles as patiently as he can. "Why don't we wait and let her warm up to you."

Nancy ushers them to the round table she's already commandeered, motioning to the maître d', with whom she's apparently acquainted.

"You actually made it to New York." She beams at Derek and Meredith once they're sitting.

"We made it," Derek agrees. Meredith passes him a coloring book and a few crayons from her bag; Zola immediately fists the purple crayon and begins decorating the blank page.

"And the trip was okay? The plane, I mean …"

"Yes, it was fine."

"For both of you..."

"Nancy, I said it was fine." Derek tries to keep the irritation out of his voice.

"What a sweet little girl," Steve intercedes, smiling at Zola, who gives him a shy little smile in return; she seems to like his quiet manner. "Look at how nicely she's coloring – Nance, I don't know if we ever had a well-behaved kid in a restaurant like that."

"Well, we never had just one," Nancy reminds him. "She's just adorable, though, really. I love her hairdo. Meredith, did you do her hair yourself?"

" _Nancy_ ," Derek says.

"No, it's fine." Meredith is smiling in a way that he knows from experience only he can tell is forced. "Derek did her hair, actually. He's gotten terrific at it, and it's fun for them." Her smile is genuine when she strokes the side of Zola's face.

"You?" Nancy looks back and forth from Zola to Derek. "Derek, I'm impressed, where were all those skills when we were kids?"

"You made me braid your dolls' hair, actually, before I got big enough to fight back," he reminds her.

"Oh, yes," Nancy smiles at the memory. "We used to make you boys play dolls with us - well, we finally stopped when Mark kept taking off all their clothes."

Steve coughs politely into his napkin.

"So." Nancy closes her leather-bound menu and frowns. "Derek … have you spoken with Addison yet?"

"I've reached out, but I haven't heard back since the first time." He and Meredith exchange a glance. "Actually, we ran into Mark…" and he tells Nancy about the bodega.

"That's … strange."

"That's what we said." Derek pauses. "You don't think something's … wrong with them, or?"

Nancy shakes her head. "I doubt it. I'm sure I would have heard something, the baby doc crowd is small _and_ gossipy."

Derek hesitates, remembering how drawn Mark looked. "I don't want to bother them."

"Mom's last pre-op appointment is tomorrow. We're running out of time."

"I know that, Nancy. I've been trying."

" _Derek_ …"

"You can call her yourself, you know," he says irritably, annoyed with the implication he hasn't been trying.

Nancy exchanges a nervous glance with Steve, then smiles at Meredith. "Meredith, I'm sure Derek has told you that Addie and I were closer than sisters at one point, but these things happen.

"These things happen?" Derek raises a mild eyebrow. He can still hear Nancy's shrill voice: _haven't you done enough to my family? Just stay away from us!_

"I have enough to do trying to corral Amy," Nancy says, glaring at Derek.

"You talked to Amy?" He's surprised.

Nancy shakes her head. "No, but Mom says Amy swore she'll be there for the surgery."

"Where is she living these days?"

"Who knows?" Nancy rolls her eyes. "Kath said she was at Hopkins for a post-fellowship. Before that, Boston, which I only know because of a colleague..." Nancy shakes her head. "Mom wants her here. Otherwise, to hell with it, after-"

She stops abruptly as waiter appears brandishing a basket of bread and Derek, Meredith, and Steve share grateful looks.

...

"Red, Mommy." Zola reaches over to pat Meredith's arm. "Red one?"

Nancy smiles at Meredith as she roots around in her bag for the requested crayon.

"I remember when my purse was full of crayons. And matchbox cars," Nancy sighs. "Anything to distract them. And then they grow up. I found condom wrappers in Sean's room, does that count?"

"Nancy," Derek says just as Steve says "honey…"

"What? They're growing up," she says. "They used to be so cute. Enjoy it now, it doesn't last."

"Why don't we decide what we're going to order," Steve says amiably, and Derek is reminded that the eating portion of their dinner hasn't even begun. But he's happy to change the subject; the idea of Sean, who Derek remembers as a giggly and freckled little boy who loved horsey rides, needing condoms, makes him feel extremely old and none too comfortable.

Nancy opens her menu again. "I hope this restaurant is all right for you, Meredith."

"It's a fine restaurant," Meredith says.

"Are you a vegetarian? You look like a vegetarian. Steve, doesn't she look like a vegetarian?"

"I'm not a vegetarian," Meredith says, sounding amused.

"Oh. Good. What will the little one eat?"

"She ate already," Derek says. "She'll pick off our plates."

"Oh, I remember that stage." Nancy looks wistful again. "Derek, can you believe the twins are turning thirteen?"

"No," Derek says, assuming that's the right answer.

"Well, you haven't exactly kept up…"

 _Oh, he walked right into that one_.

"Nancy…"

"No, I'm just saying! I know you live _out west_ now with the fishermen and the cowboys but you do have nine nieces-"

"-and five nephews. I know, Nancy."

"It doesn't seem like you know."

"Nancy," Steve says gently.

"I'm just saying it wouldn't kill him to come home for Christmas," she protests.

"It might," Derek mutters darkly.

And then they're going back and forth, talking over each other.

"Oh, would you just-"

"Nancy, I'm not going to-"

"can't even-"

"let it-"

"-go!"

" _Okay_." Steve is loud enough to be heard over the siblings. "Let's call a truce, huh? Nancy, Derek? Nance _,_ " he says again when she doesn't answer.

"Fine," she mutters.

"Fine," Derek mutters in the same tone.

"All settled then. Good. No harm done. This is what happens when you marry into a big family," Steve says heartily, turning to Meredith. "Lots of debate. We have five at home and they're no different. How about you, Meredith, do you have siblings?"

His face turns pained as Nancy clearly kicks him under the table.

"So," Steve says weakly, "...more bread, anyone?"

Zola promptly tips a glass of water across the table into Nancy's lap.

…

Another course later, Zola sleeping now with her head against his chest, Nancy sighs and pushes her plate of poached salmon slightly away from her.

"Derek ... Mom isn't budging on Addison."

"Nancy…"

"I know it probably sounds ridiculous to _you_ , but you haven't seen Mom in a while."

"What do you mean?" She's worrying him. "Is something –"

"She's seventy-six, Derek! She's Mom and she's amazing but she's not young and she's … scared. You know she doesn't like hospitals, not for herself, and maybe it's a little irrational but she wants Addison to operate and when does Mom ever ask for anything?"

Derek sighs. "Nancy … I've been trying to reach Addison," Derek says. "What else do you want me to do?"

"Can't you try again?"

"I'll call her tomorrow."

"She hasn't been returning your calls," Nancy reminds him. "Oh – now that you're finally in the city, you can go to her house," Nancy suggests.

"Nance …" He decides to ignore the word _finally_. "I think that might qualify as harassment. And anyway, I have no idea where she lives."

"I do," Nancy says. "They've been in that townhouse on 63rd and Park since … well, since the beginning. Even though it's really too big for them," she adds, apparently unable to resist.

"You want me to show up uninvited?" Derek frowns. "It's late."

"Go tomorrow, then." Nancy smiles a little. "Mom's appointment isn't until the afternoon; you have plenty of time. Just ring the bell or, you know, get the butler to ring the bell for you, and see what happens. If she's scaled back like you said she told you, maybe that means she's staying home these days. It's worth a try, Derek, this is our _mother_ we're talking about. She doesn't ask you for much. She doesn't ask you for anything, and-"

"Fine," he says abruptly. "Fine, I'll go."

Nancy nods, looking satisfied. "And don't bring Meredith," she advises.

He's surprised and a little annoyed by her warning; Addison was perfectly civil, even friendly, to Meredith at the wedding and has inquired politely after her on the few occasions they've come into professional contact since then. What is Nancy getting at?

"What do you mean, Nancy? Why not?"

"Because she's pregnant."

"Addison's pregnant?"

"No, _Meredith_ is pregnant," Nancy says patiently, sounding like Derek is being extremely dense – a tone he remembers well from childhood.

Derek is confused. "I know that, but I think Addison is used to being around pregnant women, Nancy."

Now it's his sister who looks confused. "Oh … I just assumed you knew. You don't know?"

…

"She shouldn't have said anything." He waits until Zola is asleep in the portable crib – _bed,_ they have to call it a bed, because she gets offended – to bring it up, pacing the squeaky parquet floors of the living room.

"Derek, she was just trying to help you figure out this … Addison mystery."

"Now you're taking Nancy's side?"

Meredith raises her eyebrows. "I'm not taking anyone's side."

"Well, she shouldn't have said it in front of you, not when you're pregnant."

"Derek. I'm a surgeon. That wasn't the first awful thing I've heard since I've been pregnant and it's not going to be the last one, either. Why are you being so-"

"I'm just worried." He stops pacing for a moment, studying Meredith's face. She looks calm – slightly annoyed with him, but still calm. Her small hands are propped on her hips, which stretches the fabric of her top and gives him a good look at the little swell of her belly. Their baby.

"Derek," she says gently. "If you're worried about me … why does it sound like you're angry with me?"

"I'm not. I'm sorry." He steps forward and takes her face between his palms. "I'm sorry, Meredith. I just … Nancy's timing is terrible."

"It's okay. I'm not going to freak out."

"Good."

"Why would I freak out? Just because a super brilliant baby doctor who's an expert on all things pregnancy-related lost her baby at 19 weeks … and you've been telling me we're out of danger because I'm closing in on 15… why would I freak out about that?"

He sighs. Her eyes look very pale in this light. He moves his hands to brush loose strands of hair away from her face.

"Mer … what happened to them was very sad. Incredibly sad."

The love he once had for both Addison and Mark has been gone for a very long time, but the remaining resentment faded away over the years, too, into something between disinterested neutrality and gratitude for allowing him the life he knows is the right one. Regardless, he doesn't need closeness to recognize how difficult that situation must have been for both of them. He sympathizes; he's sorry it happened.

But what's important is _this_ pregnancy, right now. This baby, their baby, and the anxiety in Meredith's eyes. They were just getting past her fears, they'd made so much progress …

"The thing is, Meredith … it's incredibly sad, yes, but it has nothing to do with you, and your pregnancy, and our baby."

Meredith nods. "I know. I know, but…" Her voice trails off then and with a slow smile she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him.

"Mer…"

"You know Zo won't be up again for another hour and a half at least." She trails a finger down his chest. "No time like the present … "

She's trying to distract him and he knows it, but she's so distracting and he's so distractible that he has few defenses, other than to say _we're going to talk more about this_ as he lifts her against his body, and she just laughs into his neck, wrapping her legs tighter around his hips and says _whatever you say, Dr. Shepherd._

Afterwards, when he's spooned around her tracing the slight curve where their child is growing, letting Meredith's heavy, relaxed breathing as she sleeps lull him too, he thinks more about what Nancy said.

His sister's delivery of Mark and Addison's tragedy was rather tactless; he wouldn't expect any other kind of delivery from Nancy, really. But the timing still doesn't add up. More than two years ago, they lost a baby. But he's communicated with Addison since then, for the consult that went smoothly with no indication she had any issue with him.

No, he doesn't think their loss is why Addison is ignoring him now. And that's the rub – Nancy didn't even need to bring it up, and now Meredith, who's been working hard to get past her fears about pregnancy, has that terrible image in her mind.

 _This is why I don't stay in touch,_ that was what he said to Nancy, annoyed, and then felt a bit guilty when hurt flashed across her features.

Protectively, he pulls Meredith a little bit closer now; she doesn't wake up, just curls her warm body closer against his in response.

...

The next morning dawns soft and slow with no alarms blaring, no pagers demanding their attention. It's a joy to laze in bed with the two people he loves the most; he brings in coffee – decaf for Meredith – and fresh orange juice and bagels and they picnic on the floor of the living room while Zola spreads out all her crayons and colors picture after picture.

He's admittedly hoping Meredith will forget the plan as the morning ticks on. It's another steamy, hot day; they eschew the outdoors for the building's playroom, which is rife with the kind of well-used and germ-infested toys toddlers adore. There are a few other children down there too, with babysitters wise enough to avoid the muggy August morning, and it's fun to see Zola play with them.

When lunchtime rolls around, they brave the outdoors for an actual picnic in the small park a few blocks down, by the river. It's nothing more than scrubby grass and a chipped statute of whoever's name the park bears, but it's enough for them to spread out a blanket in the shade and wait for the occasional warm breeze to roll off the water. They share peanut butter sandwiches and watch the boats pass them by, Zola insisting on waving each time.

And then it's one, Zola's naptime.

He almost hopes his daughter will balk, even throw a tantrum, do something that will force him to change his plans, but she's already asleep in the stroller by the time they get back to the apartment and stays that way when they tuck her into the big bed.

"I don't have to go," Derek reminds Meredith, dawdling at the front door.

"No," she says, "you don't. But … "

"…I know. You're right." She doesn't even have to say it. He holds her close for a moment, gathering strength. By the time he showers and changes, Meredith and Zola are cuddled in toward each other in the big bed in a way that makes his heart turn over.

…

He could walk – he loves walking, but the weather is the kind that soaks you in sweat before you're half a block away. So he takes a taxi to the intersection Nancy named and then stands there for a moment, taking it in. The townhouse is easy enough to find; it's just as Nancy described, down to the brass eagle topping the grate. It's surrounded by other impeccably maintained homes divided by the occasional business: perfectly maintained awnings in navy or black and white striped, protecting little French cafes and boutiques with softly lit displays of items he knows will cost a small fortune.

He pauses on the sidewalk and stares up at the townhouse for a moment. The stark black iron against the white of the limestone; the little window boxes of begonias – this is a hell of a lot more Addison's style than the bleak mid-rises and grimy storefronts where he ran into Mark. He buzzes, feeling a little bit like a stalker but deciding it's now or never. Nancy made clear his sisters don't think he's done enough for his mother over the years. This, he can do.

There's a doorknocker shaped like a lion. Maybe no one will answer, and then he won't have to deal with it, he can tell Nancy he tried and -

Then the heavy door creaks open slowly and Derek has to lower his gaze to see who was responsible for the movement.

It's the little girl he recognizes as Mark's daughter Vivian standing in the open doorway.

The foyer behind her is dim, especially compared to the bright sunlight outside, and she squints a little when she sees Derek. He notices she's a bit more put together today – still wearing shorts and a t-shirt stained with what looks like finger paints, with bare feet this time, but her hair has been pulled back into two long braids – the kind he remembers from when his sisters were young, where the braid starts at the top of the head. Now that he can see more of her face her resemblance to a young Mark is obvious.

He smiles at her, she doesn't smile back. "Hi," Derek says hesitantly. "Is your-"

"Where's the food?" Vivian asks bluntly, interrupting him.

Derek's confused. "What do you mean?"

A voice calls out down the stairs, by the sound of it – muffled, but definitely female. "Hey, Viv – don't let the guy leave until I can pay him."

He braces himself to come face to face with Addison and plans his apology for coming to her house and disturbing her. Then he'll beg her to operate on his mother. And he won't mention Meredith's pregnancy, even if he thinks Nancy's wrong. It's a simple plan, right?

He can hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and then his mouth gapes when he sees who's there.

* * *

 _Sorry! Please don't hate me too much; all will be revealed in time. Review and let me know if you think you know who it is. If you're anything like the When I Grow Up reviewers, you're all over this thing like poison oak on Bainbridge Island. Next chapter up soon._

 _ **PS** This story will contain some flashback chapters - gotta fill you in on the years you've missed; unlike my other stories it will be a full chapter flashback. I'll be clear in the intros etc. when things are taking place. Hope that's OK!_

 _ **PPS** I don't think Nancy is a bad person at all – just kind of a busybody and a little bummed she lost her insta-family when the Shepherd marriage broke up. And she doesn't have the greatest boundaries. And she seems like the kind of person who asks about Zola's hair. But she's happy about Mer's pregnancy and happy in a generic way that her brother is happy and of course she thinks Zola is adorable. I mean, how could anyone not?! _


	5. man on the moon

**A/N: Thank you** so much for the feedback, even those who think I'm mean for cliffing. Love hearing from you and so glad you're enjoying the story. All the reviews make me **fast fast fast** (hint hint hint). More author's notes at the end. Here goes...

* * *

 _man on the moon  
.._

* * *

" _Amy_?"

His tone is incredulous, staring at the dark haired woman standing in the doorway.

"Derek," his sister says slowly. "Been a long time."

Amy turns to the little girl standing next to her. "Vivi, can you go upstairs for a minute and wait for me? I'll come get you when the food gets here."

Vivian shifts from foot to foot. "But what about-"

"You can watch a DVD while you wait, okay?"

"Okay," Vivian concedes, and Derek can hear soft footfalls as she presumably climbs the stairs.

He turns to his sister and just raises an eyebrow, taking her in.

He hasn't seen Amy in years, but he recognizes the fullness in her face that means she's not using, which is … something, at least. She's wearing sweatpants that end halfway down her legs and a tank top, her hair piled on top of her head with something stuck in it – a pen, if she still has the same habits he remembers.

She's framed in the doorway of Mark and Addison's townhouse and the air behind her feels warm and gusty, like they're using fans instead of AC. It's too dark to see much except a portrait of a younger Vivian hanging a few feet back on a beveled wall – her hair is neatly styled in it and she's smiling, but she's still recognizable.

No one speaks for a moment. There's so much he could say, and nothing feels right.

"Look, Amy, you don't have to pay me," he jokes weakly, "but … an explanation might be nice."

She studies him for a moment, then scratches her calf with one bare foot. **"** I thought you were the delivery guy."

He smiles briefly. "Yeah … that part I got. I was more curious about why you're in Mark and Addison's house when you supposedly aren't coming to the city until Mom's surgery. You know, because you live in Baltimore."

"I'm helping out," she says vaguely.

"What happened to your post-fellowship?"

"I'm helping out," she repeats.

He tries a different course. "Are you working in the city now?"

No answer.

He sighs, annoyed. An idea occurs to him as he takes in his sister's casual outfit, recalls the way she addressed Vivian. And Addison's apparent absence. "Amy, are you … and Mark?"

Amy's face darkens. "Seriously? God, Derek, he's like my brother. That's disgusting."

"Okay, sorry." He puts up a conciliatory hand. "But Amy, come on. This is getting ridiculous."

"I agree. It's ridiculous. And look at that – the food's here." She points past Derek's shoulder to the man who's just parked his electric bike and is heading up the steps of the townhouse with a large paper and plastic bag. Amy smiles forcedly at Derek and hands over a fifty-dollar bill, thanking the delivery man profusely, and taking the bag in her arms.

"I have to go feed Viv now, so..." Amy's voice trails off, her meaning clear.

"Why?" He asks. She ignores him. "Why are you feeding her, Amy? Where are Addison and Mark?"

"Look, Derek, I'm sure you mean well, just do me a favor and – "

 _Just don't come back._

She stops talking before the end of the sentence, but the words somehow hang in the air anyway.

For a moment neither of them speaks.

Derek swallows. "You should probably tell Vivian not to open the door to strangers," he says quietly.

"She thought you were the Chinese food guy, Derek. I forgot to warn her a stalker might buzz instead."

"Look, Amy, can you at least tell Addison –"

"That you're trying to reach her? Sure."

"No, tell her that Mom's appointment is at 3:15 today at MSC and it would mean a lot if she could show up."

"Derek…"

"Amy, Mom wants this. I don't understand why but she does. And you won't tell me why not, so can you just… just tell Addison. Just tell her."

"Okay. I'll tell her." Amy pauses, a hand on the door. "Derek … how is she? How's Mom?"

For a minute Amy looks very young.

"She's fine, or she will be as long as she has surgery as scheduled. Haven't you spoken to her?"

"Yes, I've spoken to her." Amy's tone is defensive.

"Well, are you going to see her?"

"Of course I'm going to see her, Derek. She's my mother."

"Amy…"

There's a sound from upstairs that he can't identify, but it makes Amy turn around.

"I have to go. I'm sorry … bye, Derek," and the heavy door closes again.

...

He walks back to their rented apartment, despite the heat. Or maybe it's that he doesn't even feel the heat; he's too busy feeling … discombobulated. _Amy._ She tends to have that effect.

As he turns the key in the door to their apartment, he hears voices. More than one adults voice. Confused, he lets the door swing shut behind him as he walks in on …

His sister and his mother, seeming perfectly comfortable in their rented apartment. The sister and mother who weren't supposed to come over until after his mother's appointment.

He mouths immediate apologies to Meredith, who's standing next to his sister looking surprisingly casual – he's horrified that she's been cornered, but she gives him what looks like a genuine smile.

… maybe because his seventy-six year old mother is currently perched on a hassock with a plastic tiara in her grey hair and multiple strings of pink and white beads decorating her neck while Zola pours her a cup of tea.

"Blow," Zola reminds her grandmother, handing her the cup. "Hot."

Liz is leaning against the wall, watching them, and when she turns her face to Derek there are tears in her eyes. "You're a daddy," she says simply.

"I am." He leans over to kiss her cheek. "I kind of thought you'd give me some warning before you joined the … tea party, though."

"Sorry. It's so hot out, and we were going to leave the bags with the doorman and go over to MSC but Mom wanted to use the restroom, and Meredith was so nice about it … "

"It's fine."

Meredith squeezes his hand reassuringly, and he strolls across the living room floor to join his mother and his daughter. "Room for one more?"

He leans over to kiss his mother's cheek before he kneels down.

"Daddy!" Zola pauses intricately stacking pieces of air on a pink plastic tray to squeeze his neck. He kisses the top of her head.

"I missed you, Zo! Are you having fun playing with…" his voice trails off. He knows what his sisters' children call his mother, but they've known her since birth; she's never been a relative stranger to them.

"Grammy," Zola fills in, pointing to Carolyn.

"Right. Grammy." His throat feels a little thick.

"Grammy loves a good tea party," Derek's mother says warmly. "And Miss Zola is an excellent hostess. She's given me three helpings of cookies even though I should probably watch my figure."

"These cookies." Zola picks up the plastic tray. "These ones. Here, Grammy."

"Four helpings!" His mother is beaming at Zola as she takes an imaginary sweet and brings it to her lips. "All right, if you insist."

…

Meredith leans against his side when he takes a break from the tea party. "Zola is having a good time."

Liz smiles. "Mom has a lot of experience with tea parties. So does your husband," she adds to Meredith. "The things we used to do to him…"

"She knows, from Nancy," Derek cuts in with a half-smile.

"Siblings." Liz glances at Meredith. "Do you know what you're having?"

Meredith shakes her head. "Not yet."

"Derek." Liz pushes her glasses down to look at him. "Did you hear from…"

"No." He shakes his head. "I went to her place today," he confesses.

"You saw her?"

"No." He pauses, then decides to share it. It's not like Amy's on his side, then or now; he doesn't owe her anything. Amy racks up debts; she doesn't collect them. It's how she's always been. "I saw Amy."

"Amy?" Liz's eyes widen. "What was she…"

" _Helping out,_ " Derek quotes, and he gives his sister and his wife the short version.

"That's weird," Liz says quietly.

Meredith rests a small hand on his arm. The warmth of it reassures him.

"Lizzie … Mom looks good," Derek says faintly, ready for a change of subject. He watches his mother readjust her tiara and Zola, giggling, reach out to help her.

"Yeah." Liz sighs. "But, Derek … she's being stubborn."

"Mom? Stubborn?" He feigns shock.

Liz smiles a little at this. "She's pushing back on the surgery."

Derek sighs. "I'm trying, Liz."

"I know you are. I just … I don't get it. I loved Addie," Liz says. "Don't get me wrong. She was like another sister, you know that. And god knows she's an amazing surgeon. But this isn't exactly a complicated procedure and I don't understand what the big deal is."

"Does Mom know…"

"…that you haven't reached her? Yeah."

"But she's still going to the pre-op…"

"We convinced her Dr. McGovern would be offended if she didn't." Liz makes a face at Derek's expression. "It's a stopgap, okay? What am I supposed to say, let's just wait and let it spread while we try to track down the daughter-in-law you didn't even like?"

Derek glances between Meredith and Liz. "Mom liked her," he says weakly.

"Fine, she liked her, but they weren't exactly the best of friends. And now only Addie can cut her open."

"Liz," he reproves.

His sister lifts her hands, exasperated. "Fine. I give up. We'll deal with it after pre-op."

...

Derek pulls Meredith aside as subtly as he can to check on her. "I'm sorry they ambushed you." He winces slightly. "I wanted to be here when they came."

"It's fine. Really," she says, smiling at him. "Nancy was a good warmup."

He laughs a little at this. "Liz is … quieter. Less like a … rabid dog."

"Derek." She laughs too. "But yeah. Something smaller, I don't know … maybe like a guinea pig."

He can't help smiling at the image. "But really, it was okay?"

"It was. Liz was fine, quiet, and your mom only had eyes for Zola."

"How did she take it?" Their daughter is friendly, once she's warmed up, but she's not a fan of aggressive introductions.

"Surprisingly well. Your mother has some kind of grandma voodoo, I think. Zola was eating out of her hand, or actually giving her imaginary food to eat out of _her_ hand, in record time."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Meredith nods. "And then boom, shiny happy Grammy time."

He's impressed.

"What should we do about…" He glances between Zola and Carolyn.

Liz walks back into earshot just in time. "Listen, Mom doesn't want any grandkids at the hospital," she says. "Blanket rule, no negs. And not just the little ones, either. Not even Carly, and she's in medical school."

Derek exchanges a glance with Meredith.

"It's fine," she says. "I understand. You go. I'm sure Zola and I can find some sort of entertainment in the city that never sleeps."

Liz smiles at this. "I'm going to get ready."

"Derek, it's _fine,_ " Meredith assures him when they're alone again. You came here to see your mom – and you should follow her lead. She doesn't want the kids to see her sick."

"I don't have to go to the appointment," he says. "Liz and Nancy will both be there."

"But your mom wants you there. Derek…" she stands on her tiptoes. "Kiss us goodbye and go. We'll be here when you get back."

So he does, starting with Meredith and ending with Zola, who leaves sticky residue on his cheek – so his mother is still carrying lollipops around in her purse for the grandkids.

The thought makes him smile.

…

They're early – Carolyn Shepherd is always early, even with five children under one roof – and they settle on pink synthetic couches in the relatively comfortable family waiting room.

Physically comfortable, at least. But Liz and Nancy are discussing Addison's mysterious silence, Liz finally grabbing her sister's sleeve and guiding her away from their mother, gesturing with her head for Derek to join.

"Subtle, Lizzie." Nancy rolls her eyes.

"Nance … Derek went to Addie's place today and Amy was there."

"There like living there?"

Derek shrugs. "Hard to tell." He repeats the story for Nancy.

"Amy's living with Addie," Nancy repeats. "That's … odd."

"So you didn't know anything about it either?"

"No. I knew when she lived with her the first time," Nancy says, and doesn't need to say anything further. The less said about that period, the better. She turns to Derek. "Did you say anything to – "

"Mom? No." Derek shakes his head. "Let Amy tell her herself, or not tell her … but I asked Amy to tell Addison that Mom's appointment is today."

"Why is Amy staying with them? Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," Derek admits. "It … seems like it must be, but they're being so mysterious about it." _Unnecessarily mysterious,_ he thinks, even though he acknowledges that's not terribly fair. "Something could be wrong," he says tentatively.

"Wrong, like … no, I would have heard," Nancy insists again, as she did at dinner the previous night.

"I haven't heard anything, either," Liz says.

"I don't think rumors are going to float all the way up to … _Connecticut_."

"You are _such_ a New York snob, Nancy. We grew up in the same place, remember? Like actually the same room?"

"Oh, could you even _see_ the room under all the clothes you would throw everywhere? At least you're a slightly better housekeeper now."

"Guys." Derek cuts in before Liz can reply. He's the little brother, but he's finding himself interceding anyway. "Don't bicker."

"Don't tell us what to do," Nancy retorts, but it's halfhearted, and she stops arguing with Liz.

"Look, we're early and they're running late. Let's just – take a deep breath, try to relax."

His sisters are wearing similar vaguely mutinous expressions.

He suggests a fallback truce, even if it's not exactly a relaxation technique: "How about coffee?"

He's eager for air so he offers to make a run; he noticed a Coffee Tree across the street earlier. Sure, it's generic and corporate but it will do the trick.

…

His blackberry buzzes as he waits for the elevator in MSC's pink-lined hallway. It's an email from … Dr. Addison Montgomery.

He stops in his tracks to read the missive. It's short, starting with well wishes for his mother and running straight into a list of proposed referrals for her surgery, all of whom received her glowing recommendation. It closes politely with no request for a response, nor does Derek get the sense a response would be welcome.

Leaning against the wall, he takes a moment to evaluate the communication. It feels dense, like he needs to take it apart. The recommendations are diverse; Addison's covered a good swath of the city: Columbia Pres, way uptown; Sinai, closer; Central-Hamilton, and even University South … but no MSC, the city's premier cancer center. It seems strange at first, because he definitely said his mother's surgery was at MSC during their brief phone call – but he realizes she probably didn't hear the name of the hospital due to their shaky connection.

…but he also told Amy MSC. Although maybe Amy never delivered the message to Addison, and she was just emailing of her own accord.

…except that Amy has apparently been staying with Mark and Addison, or _helping out,_ as she put it, and according to his sisters Amy has known about his mother's impending surgery at least as long as Derek has.

His mind swims with the possibilities. It's _strange,_ that word he's been applying for days now. He fingers the keyboard of his blackberry. Maybe he can use Addison's email to get his mother on board with a different surgeon. He can just write back and ask her if she can recommend someone at MSC, or at least give him a few glowing words about Dr. McGovern that he can use to soothe his mother's fears.

The blackberry buzzes almost immediately after he sends his email; surprised, he opens her reply.

 _I am currently out of the office with limited access to my emails. If you currently have an appointment scheduled, please call 212-555-8008 and my assistant will reschedule you. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, please dial 911._

It's an automatic response, clearly, and it poses more questions than it answers.

…which, at this point, doesn't really surprise him much.

…

He's almost at Coffee Tree, still tracing possibilities in his mind, when he sees what he's pretty sure is the back of Mark's grey head a few paces away from the shop.

"Mark!" He calls after him before he can stop himself.

He sees the other man pause, almost imperceptibly, but it's enough to convince him, and he jogs to catch up.

"Hey, what are you …" His voice trails off.

Mark's wearing sunglasses; Derek can't see his eyes. He has a canvas bag hanging off his shoulders and a paper coffee cup in his hand. If Derek remembers him, the cup will carry a cappuccino. But does he actually remember him?

"… hey," Derek says again, confusion washing through him; the certainty he felt when he chased Mark down seems to fading.

Mark nods acknowledgement but doesn't speak.

"You, um, do you have a second?"

"Not really." Mark glances at his watch. "I need to go get Vivian."

"Okay, this will just take – look, Mark … I don't want to pry, but is everything okay with you and your … family?"

"Everything's fine."

"Okay." Derek takes a deep breath. "Then hear me out. Please." He lets the words flow without self-censoring, picturing his mother's bowed grey head topped with a pink plastic tiara, the way she looked at Zola. His sisters' kids are all teenagers or adults but Derek's family is just beginning, and he wants his mother to be there for it. "Look, Mark, I don't want to blackmail you, but my mother put a lot into you when you were a kid. She loved you and she's getting older and she's scared and for whatever reason she only wants Addison to operate on her. I know how that sounds. I know it's ridiculous. I know I'm bothering you, and I know we haven't talked in a while and – look, I know all of that. But you live with Addison and I need your help. So I'm asking you to remember all the years you were part of my family and see if you can find it in your heart to-"

"I'm sorry."

Derek exhales.

"I'm sorry about your mother, I mean," Mark clarifies.

"Mark, is something wrong with Addison?" He blurts it before he can stop himself.

"I already told you everything's fine. I have to go, Derek, I can't be late."

"Mark, please!"

Derek calls it after his retreating back, taking a chance.

It's the second word, the plea, that seems to make Mark hesitate; finally, he turns around and covers the distance separating the two men.

Standing close enough now for Derek to see the grey bristles covering his face, he speaks in a low, forceful tone: "Listen, it's been a long time. And we were the bad guys. We're – we shouldn't be asking _you_ for favors. I get it. And I'm sorry. _I'm sorry._ But Derek – if you ever cared about us, _leave us alone._ " Abruptly, his tone changes. "Good luck with your mom's surgery, man. Give her my best."

And then he's walking away and Derek just leans against the grimy wall outside the coffee shop, steadying his breath. He hasn't felt this thrown by Mark in a long time. And without a witness – he glances around, the air is hot and still and empty of people he knows – he almost feels like he imagined it.

* * *

 _TBC. Please review, I need reviews like Meredith needs caffeine (which is a bad comparison because she's not drinking it right now since she's carrying a McBaby, but you know what I mean). Also - you're all too smart for me with your Amy guesses. I have to up my game. I promise all will be answered about why certain people are acting SO weird. Eventually, all will be answered. Oh - and I think I fudged timeline a little on the little guy's gender, but finding out the gender is too cute to happen offscreen, so I'm saving it for a later moment. Please forgive me._

 _Oh! And thank you for all your nice comments about my Nancy. I agree, she's not malicious, just ... blunt, and a little self-involved. Liz is a little more humane. I mean, and Liz is Neve Campbell, so ... yeah. But I also think the sisters' attitude to Meredith will be different in this universe because there's no way to spin the story as Meredith "stealing" Derek, like Nancy did in Season 3. Derek is clearly the wronged party here, and everyone's moved on and ... ooh, that reminds me, next chapter is a flashback. **press the button** and make my night!_


	6. INTERLUDE: pictures of you

**A/N:** I'm so happy to hear that people are enjoying this story! If you're anonymous and I can't PM you, I thank you extra much here. So here's the deal: this story will contain flashback chapters - as in, the full chapter takes place at a different time. The time period should be clear, and the flashback will have some relation to what just happened in the storyline as well. All of the flashback chapters start with the word INTERLUDE, just for clarity's sake when you're scrolling chapters. Some flashbacks will cover familiar or just slightly different territory, some will be brand new A/U stuff. This particular chapter is one that's kind of all three, and it's a slightly different twist on a familiar bit - and a slightly different perspective than I've ever used. Please read and let me know what you think. Next chapter, we're back to the present storyline, but for now...

* * *

 **INTERLUDE**

 _pictures of you_

 _..._

* * *

It starts with a feeling.

That's all – just a feeling.

A feeling that he pauses on the stoop to consider, his key actually touching the lock of the front door. It's been a long night, a lot longer than he expected, with a patient coding on the table – and then getting revived successfully, only to code again. And it's raining, that diagonal rain that slides under your umbrella and makes sure everything feels damp and chilled and miserable. Someone's blocking his parking spot, which is annoying but not unusual; the rain makes it worse because he has to leave his car a block away.

And then as he touches his key to the front door, he has a feeling.

…which is why he's still standing outside, even though it's raining.

It's the type a feeling he gets, sometimes, where he senses a change in the air and can feel that something's coming. Usually, he feels it in the OR. He felt it earlier tonight, when he lost his patient, so maybe it's just that sense of danger clinging to him the way the damp cuffs of his shirt are clinging to his wrists.

When he pushes the front door open, everything looks normal. Everything looks the same. There's a light on in the living room.

Here's what he'd like to do: put down his bag, hang up his coat, pour a scotch.

Here's what he does instead: puts down his bag, and then walks into the living room.

Here's why: his name, warbled out across the hall, summoning him.

When his wet dress shoes have slid slick over the threshold – which mean he didn't dry them properly on the mat, the kind of thing that bothers his wife – he sees Addison and Mark sitting together on the high-backed antique couch that's never been comfortable. She's twisting the hem of her shirt and looks like she's been crying.

 _Great._ That's his first, uncharitable thought, because he doesn't want to deal with this, but he forces it down, smiling wanly at her in a way he hopes is reassuring and shooting Mark a questioning look.

When that yields nothing he goes to sit on the coffee table in front of the couch, still wearing his coat. Addison doesn't tell him not to sit there, so she must be distracted by something. Her face is bare of makeup and pale, long damp hair is hanging over her shoulders.

"Derek," Addison begins to talk, her voice thick with tears. "We just wanted to, um …"

Derek shakes his head, trying not to look as impatient as he feels. She's obviously worked up about something. He wonders if he can get away with discreetly checking his blackberry to confirm the date – did they have a reservation somewhere? He's missed one or two in the past, and Addison likes to make a federal case out of it even though she works late most of the time herself.

Addison stops talking and turns to Mark. "I can't do it," she whimpers. "I can't."

Mark passes her a tissue and she dabs at her eyes.

"Derek," Mark speaks this time, his expression grim. "This is … awkward."

"What's awkward?" Derek looks from one of them to the other.

"The thing is that we don't want anyone to be unhappy," Mark continues. "We shouldn't have to be unhappy."

Derek is confused. Who is the _we_ in this scenario?

"None of us," Mark clarifies. "The thing is-"

"Mark, please." Addison puts her hand on his arm. "Don't."

"We need to," he says. "Addison … it's okay."

Derek looks from one of them to the other.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Addison is miserable," Mark says finally, and Derek can't help but agree, she's crying again and pressing the crumpled tissue to her face. "And I'm miserable too and I think you're miserable even if you don't admit it, Derek. That's the thing. We're all miserable like this."

"Like what?"

"Like … this." Mark gestures around them. "We're in love," he says simply, and when Addison raises teary eyes to meet Derek's he finally comprehends.

"You … the two of you?" He blinks slowly, taking it in.

Mark nods.

"You're … " He's not sure what words he's looking for. Sleeping together behind his back? Having an affair? Screwing? _In love,_ as Mark put it, which sounds so laughable he's not sure he could even repeat it?

"Derek, please, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Addison warbles, "we never meant to hurt you, we never meant to hurt anyone, and if you just let me explain, please, Derek, I can tell you how we-"

"Shut up," he cuts in, not viciously, just – logistically, because he needs a minute of silence to think and allowing him that has never been Addison's strong suit.

She actually listens to him for once – maybe he finally has the upper hand – going quiet immediately and slumping silently on the couch.

"You're having an affair. The two of you. You … and Mark."

Addison winces a little bit at his words, like she was planning to dress their betrayal up in something that sounded less … vulgar. Less cruel. Of course she was; Addison likes to dress things up to make them seem better than they are. Outsides count; outsides always count. Didn't she change him – the way he dressed, the way he talked, the way he lived? He looks around the living room of the brownstone they've lived in for almost nine years and sees antiques she picked out, a color scheme he admittedly ignored when she asked his opinion, and a rug he's never liked because it catches in the soles of his dress shoes.

He looks around the room and he sees very little of himself.

And then he looks at the woman he married eleven years ago, on a snowy day at the Plaza, their cold puffs of breath visible in the air, the woman who was the girl who caught his eye in medical school, who chewed the ends of her pencils and giggled nervously when she wielded a scalpel. And then he looks at the man who stood next to him at that wedding, the man who was the boy who sat next to him for twelve straight years of schooling, who held his hand tightly at his father's funeral and spent every Christmas with his family.

He thinks of a turn of phrase – is it a lyric from something? Poetry, or a song? _Your life is on fire._

That's what they've done.

These two people, who were closest to him, that's what they've done. They've set his life on fire.

And now the room that has nothing of him in it is going to burn.

Mark just looks at him, seeming not to know what to do with Derek's silence. Maybe he thought Derek would get angry. Maybe he thought Derek would throw a punch.

Maybe he never knew Derek at all.

"We wanted to come clean," Mark says now, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "We wanted to be honest. And to tell you, and find a way to move forward here, because the way things are now doesn't have to be the way they always are, you know?"

"Move forward," Derek is still sitting in the same place, his breaths traveling in and out of his body at a pace that neither surprises nor worries him, but is noticeable at the same time. "Move forward? That's what you want to do?"

Mark nods, and Addison, who seems to be frozen in place, makes a small sound that's something between a whimper and a plea.

Derek studies her face for a moment, this woman who was his wife.

"Pack your things," he tells her calmly, his voice level. "Pack your things and get out. I'm going to go have a drink. You won't be here when I get back."

"Derek," she sobs, leaning forward and reaching toward him; he stands before she can touch him. "Please, Derek, you need to let me-"

"I don't need to let you do anything," he says simply. He gives Mark one more glance. "You want her so badly, you can have her."

"Derek-"

He hears his name in stereo – in pleading, in misery – from both of them, one after the other and then at the same time, but he just walks out and closes the heavy front door behind him, then leans against it for a moment, gathering breath.

Eleven years.

…

"Hey Doc, how's the brain business?"

"Not as useful as the booze business." Derek sits on one of the familiar stools, the heels of his dress shoes finding purchase on the same rung they always do, still feeling like he's dreaming. Or reeling. Or both.

"You look beat."

The bartender, Otto pours him his drink without asking for an order, and Derek downs it as soon as it slides across the bar.

"Another?"

He nods.

Otto passes him his second scotch.

"Problems at home?"

Derek raises his glass in affirmation.

Otto nods sympathetically, wiping the familiar rag along the bar's shining surface. "Scotch is man's best friend at times like these."

"Good, because I'm in the market for a new best friend." Derek glances at the bartender. "My old best friend is sleeping with my wife. Or should I say my ex-best friend is sleeping with my soon-to-be ex-wife."

Otto pours him a third shot without a word. "This one's on the house."

…

She's gone when he gets back; the room that was their shared bedroom is full of yawning empty spaces where her clothes and shoes – and all the other frippery that used to charm and then eventually annoy him – once resided.

There's a note for him sitting in the middle of the bed, on a piece of her pretentious cardstock stationery – too bad, it's hard to tear up that stuff – with drops of liquid splotching the ink in several places.

He's a completist so he reads it, not sure what he's looking for.

 _Derek, I just want you know that I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I never wanted this to happen – it just did. You can have whatever you want, you can have the house, I just want it to be easy –_ of course she does, Addison always wants things to be easy, she just doesn't want to do the work it takes to get there – _I hope someday you can forgive me or at least understand that I didn't mean to hurt you. I love you and I always will but you deserve someone who can love you the right way. You deserve someone better._

He can't crumple the heavy cardstock so he drops it to the floor and grinds it with the heel of his shoe instead.

...

He puts the bolt and the chain on the front door before he goes to sleep; he has some vague memory of Savvy or Weiss telling him you're not supposed to change the locks in these situations. _These situations._ How did his life, his perfectly acceptable, boring life married to his first real girlfriend, working with his childhood best friend … become _these situations?_

He's tired, but he hasn't so much as peeled back the comforter before he suddenly wonders if the two of them used this bed for … it nauseates him to think they could have. In this bed. In _his_ bed. He doesn't want to see either one of them again, he knows that, but some small part of him would still like the minimal comfort of knowing they didn't defile his house. That they wouldn't.

Then he remembers that Addison had wet hair when he got home. We hair, as if she'd recently showered.

That's when he calls her a few choice names he's never directed at her before, out loud, _loudly,_ and they echo in the empty bedroom.

Then he goes to sleep in the guest room instead and when his blackberry's jingling alarm wakes him at six like it always does, his mind is suddenly clear. It's as if he's received instructions in his sleep.

Calm, clear instructions.

He's not going to put on a suit. He's not going to walk across town to his practice. He's not going to stop for coffee at Truro's – well, okay, maybe he'll do that. But it's as if a title screen just dropped down on a movie, and he gets it: his life here is over.

It's not on fire, it's not burning, it's just … done.

Finished.

The end of his life here, the life he's built, should hurt. Shouldn't it hurt?

But it doesn't. It just feels clean. Surgically precise.

It feels right.

He's a professional, so he ties up loose ends, leaves word with his partner and instructions for his secretary. He says _emergency_ even though he feels almost serene. He packs three suitcases.

When he walks through the dining room on his way out the door, he stops at the piano that neither of them plays and studies the silver frame that holds their wedding portrait. Addison's frozen smile is wide, her eyes excited behind their heavy makeup and maybe a little anxious if he looks closely. The version of Derek in the photograph seems … happy. Nervously happy, anyway. They're very dressed up, formally posed, and piercingly, painfully _young._

Carefully, so as not to break the glass, he turns the frame face-down on the piano.

She'll get the point.

...

"Is it my birthday?"

"No." Derek smiles into the phone. He feels relaxed, but also energized. Who knew Ohio was such a lovely state? He pulled over at a diner on a road his map brought him instead of the highway and ate the best eggs and bacon of his life after driving all night.

He watched the sun come up and now he's back on the road, phone in one hand and wheel in the other. It's not raining – not here, anyway.

"But you're finally accepting my offer."

"I just want a change," Derek says.

"Your change is my great news." Richard's deep, rich voice sounds the same as always. "When are you flying out?"

"Actually … I'm driving."

"Driving!" Richard sounds surprised. "Across the country? That's going to take some time."

He has time now. He has all the time he needs.

When Derek doesn't answer, Richard speaks again: "Well, you always did like doing things your own way."

 _Doing things his own way_ … funny, he's not sure he's actually done that in a long time.

But he thinks maybe he's going to start.

He's going to start today.

* * *

 _Please review and let me know what you think of this take on How it All Began. I've never written quite this kind of thing before and it was an interesting experience. There will be more down the line about the beginning of Derek and Meredith's relationship, in both flashback and present-day allusion, but first he had to take control and start driving. So the deal is: you keep reviewing like bosses and I'll keep posting like a maniac on caffeine ..._

 _PS What do you think about my responding to anonymous reviewers in author's notes? Do people like that? Does it clog up the document? Let me know._


	7. miss halfway

**A/N: Thank you** for your comments. I love hearing what you think. I know the flashback last chapter took us away from the main story - thank you for your patience on that. I love flashbacks and I do want to build the story. _But_ I also want you to enjoy it, so please let me know if you'd rather stick fully to the present going forward, and I will find another way to work in the past. Okay? Okay. Now, back to the main story...

* * *

 _miss halfway  
..._

* * *

He decides not to tell his sisters about running into Mark.

Instead, he keeps things normal – or as normal as things can be when he's spending more time with his family than he has in years. He brings back a tray of drinks to the family waiting room and listens to the umpteenth iteration of Nancy complaining that the barista put too much foam on her cappuccino. But their mother must be very distracted – because she forgets to scold Derek for wasting money buying her a cup of tea when he knows perfectly well she always carries extra teabags in her pocketbook.

"Mom?" Liz rests a hand on her mother's arm, glancing at her siblings. "How are you feeling?"

"Anxious, Lizzie. She's anxious. It's obvious."

"Great, Nancy, that's very helpful. Mom … everything's going to be fine."

Derek sighs. Liz and Nancy manage to be annoyingly close half the time and annoyingly bickering the other half; it's just how they are, he knows, and he shouldn't get involved. But he also doesn't want his mother to be worried.

His blackberry pings then, and it's Meredith sending a picture of Zola standing on the sidewalk with an ice cream cone looking positively thrilled and apparently unruffled by the steamy weather.

"Ooh, let me see!" Nancy leans over him. "So cute. Mom, look."

And with that, they finally find a subject that gets a unanimous vote. Four out of four Shepherds in the MSC family waiting room agree: Zola is adorable.

"At least you have the twins," Lizzie tells Nancy, sighing. "I have to text Chloe to get her to come downstairs for dinner."

"That's an exaggeration."

"I wish!"

The siblings fall silent, and as if they planned it, all three look over at their mother. She's sitting quietly in a pink armchair with a stoic expression on her face, fussing with the shoulder strap of the handbag sitting in her lap.

"Mom," Nancy says gently, "you really don't have anything to worry about. Brooke – Dr. McGovern – is fantastic. She has an excellent record and everything is going to go smoothly."

"Nancy's known Brooke since medical school," Liz reminds Derek.

Dr. McGovern and her chief nurse meet them in the family lounge before bringing Carolyn back for her final appointment. They're both warm and reassuring, and clearly expert in their field, although Derek can't help but notice that his mother still seems tense.

"We're going to give you something to help you relax," Dr. McGovern assures Carolyn, before explaining to all four Shepherds that she will be sending her patient down to radiology for more scans.

"But happy pills first," Nancy confirms. "Right?"

"Better not let Kathleen hear you call them that," Liz snickers.

...

"Hold Mommy's hand, Zola – see how busy it is here?"

Meredith isn't crazy about the hectic sidewalks, but her daughter is taking it in stride – maybe because she's so small that it's just a bunch of people's knees anyway. Well, that and dogs, which is apparently a major perk: Zola has insisted on stopping to pet any canines that look particularly promising.

Her daughter is in a cheerful mood, energetic and chatty. She shook her head vigorously when Meredith reached for the umbrella stroller, declaring _no no, walking!_ And so they're walking.

And it's hot, and humid, but as far as company goes … it's pretty great.

 _Great_ is nice. _Great_ is good. _Great_ is the best, actually, and Meredith ... well, Meredith spent a large part of her life expecting the worst.

Anticipating the worst.

Waiting for the worst.

She waited for Derek to realize that she was a mess and take off, but he didn't.

She waited for the social worker to realize that she had no idea how to be a mother, but she didn't.

Which is how she ended up with a life that's way too perfect for someone who's used to expecting the worst.

Okay, in fairness, not everything is perfect. But with the two people she loves most in close proximity and a third one growing inside her right now? It's pretty close to perfect.

…which makes it hard to shake the feeling that something bad is coming.

Whether it's superstition or pessimism or just the struggles of her early life … it's hard. And as much as she promised Derek she wasn't going to dwell on Mark and Addison's lost baby, it's hard not to let it cross her mind.

 _Nineteen weeks._ Their child is already so _real_ at nearly fifteen weeks gestation, the idea of what they must have gone through … it's terrible. Terrible and terrifying all at once, which is why the advice not to dwell makes so much sense.

Meredith rests her hand on the slight swell of her belly anyway, as she watches Zola make friends with an affectionate dachshund who belongs to an elderly woman in rhinestone-studded black cat's-eye glasses. The little dog is as enamored of Zola as she is of him, and his mistress is patient while the dachshund licks every available inch of his new best friend.

Zola apparently decides the dachshund's owner is worthy of her confidence, because she points one small finger at Meredith's midsection, beaming, and says, nice and loud, "Baby in there!"

"In _there_?" The elderly woman doesn't look convinced. "It can't be."

"Oh, it can." Meredith imbues the words with false cheer, smiles at the awkwardness and reaches for Zola's hand. "Thanks for being so nice about the dog. Come on, ZoZo." She extends her hand toward her daughter.

"You're too skinny," the woman says firmly, looking her up and down with distaste. "That baby needs nutrition, you know."

"Okay, bye now," Meredith keeps her tone calm as she lifts Zola into her arms.

"Bye bye," Zola calls out to the woman now watching them with disapproval.

Meredith remembers what Bailey said once: if you think the world is critical and nosy now, wait until you get pregnant. She's used to unsolicited comments about her body, but nosiness is one thing; the suggestion she's not taking care of her child is another.

"It's a nice doggie," Zola says wistfully, and Meredith can't help smiling. She loves listening to her put together sentences. The air is starting to feel even stickier than before, though.

"It's so hot today. Are you hot, Zo?"

"Yeah," Zola says casually, strolling beside her in as little clothing as Meredith deemed doable for leaving the apartment. And Zola seems cool. Zola's mother, on the other hand, is sweating through her tank top and seriously regretting her choice of pants.

"It doesn't feel this hot when there's a little nature around to cool us off." She keeps up a chatty monologue with Zola as she usually does when the two of them venture out together; Zola participates more and more these days, which is fun. "It's not going to be the same as Seattle … but we could go to the park."

Zola seems to be pondering this. "Ice cream," she says finally.

"Ice cream," Meredith smiles down at her daughter. "That doesn't really answer my question … but I can't say it's a bad idea."

They finish an ice cream cone each – drippy and sweet in that summery way – standing in the little park where they picnicked on their first day and watching the boats. Meredith rests a hand on her belly, the other arm wrapped around Zola as she stands on the bench for a better view of the river.

 _Ooh_.

Was that a kick? Or just the result of ice cream on a hot, sticky day …? _You haven't kicked me yet, baby. And if you were going to – this might be a good time. No pressure, though._

…

Her other baby is tired by the time they gear up to leave the park, lifting her arms to be carried.

"You know what, Zo? Mommy might be a little too hot to carry you right now. How about if we walk together, like this," and Meredith holds out her hands. Zola clings to her legs, shaking her head.

"Up," she pleads, and Meredith can't say no to that …

Which is how she ends up carrying an armload of extremely warm toddler six blocks, kicking herself for not bringing the stroller.

The contrast of the hot, moist air outside and the icy, dry chill blowing from the vents inside makes her shiver as the sweat dries on her skin. She hasn't had an east coast August in years, but this is bringing back memories of humid Boston summers, the kind that steal your breath.

"Mommy." Zola tugs on her hand. "You sleepy, Mommy?"

"It's okay, sweetie." Meredith leans against the door to the apartment for a moment, catching her breath.

…

He realizes something is wrong as soon as he spots her profile.

There's nothing visibly wrong. Everything is visibly fine.

Meredith looks very calm, sitting at the kitchen table with Zola, who is placing colorful wooden farm animals into one of those cut-out puzzles, a pink sippy cup of milk resting next to her right hand.

But something is wrong.

For a moment after he realizes this, time freezes. Then he hears his sisters laughing, casual, as they push past him with his mother into the living room.

"Of course you would, Lizzie, but-"

"That one was the _worst,_ I mean can you even-"

"Nancy!"

His sister appears in the curved doorway to the kitchen shortly after he calls her name. It seems to take her less than a second to size everything up and then she's kneeling on the kitchen floor in front of Meredith, talking to her quietly, and then she's standing again and she's giving calm, efficient orders.

The bickering, interfering sister he loves and is annoyed by in equal measure has disappeared, replaced by a competent, reassuring professional.

"I'm ... okay," Meredith says slowly. "I'm just – having a little –"

"-trouble breathing," Derek finishes for her, trying not to panic. "Nancy, what's going on? Nancy, please!"

"Derek, calm down," Nancy says firmly. "You need to calm down, right now."

"Meredith," and her tone is much more gentle; she has her blackberry in one hand and her other on her sister-in-law's shoulder. "My colleague's office is ten blocks away. We're going to go there and get you checked out."

Derek waits for Meredith to protest but she just nods weakly. One of her hands is resting on her stomach; Derek is stroking her hair, willing her breathing to ease and hoping he can transmit to her a calm he doesn't actually feel.

"But Zola-"

"Mom and Liz can watch her."

Derek exchanges a glance with Meredith. They've never left her with his family before. But he knows Meredith is keeping it together for Zola and if they bring her she'll have to _keep_ keeping it together.

"ZoZo – " Derek lifts her into his arms. "How would you like to have a playdate with Grammy and Aunt Lizzie," and he says _Aunt Lizzie_ like he has for years to Nancy's kids and Kathleen's, so it just comes out, "and Mommy and Daddy will be back very soon. Before you know it."

Nancy is helping Meredith stand and supporting her with an arm around her waist.

"Wait!"

"Mer."

"Derek, please just let me …"

And he leans Zola down so Meredith can kiss her and whisper how much she loves her before they leave.

His mother and Liz are waiting just outside the kitchen. Zola wriggles to get down from Derek's arms when she sees her grandmother. "Candy?" She asks hopefully.

Derek gives his mother a grateful look. "Whatever it takes," he says, "thank you so much. And – text me?"

He pauses. "Wait, and –"

Liz gestures impatiently toward the door. "Derek, Mom and I raised ten kids between us. Other than being abnormally cute Zola's nothing new for us. Now _go_ … be with your wife and your other kid."

Derek can't help peering around the corner once before he goes, to see that Zola, a purple lollipop already in hand, is showing Carolyn her little yellow cans of modeling clay.

Then he jogs to the elevator bank, catching up with Nancy and Meredith, relieved that at least one of the Grey-Shepherds is doing okay. Meredith's fingers find his, he squeezes her hand reassuringly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"You're fine. Mer, you're fine," he murmurs.

"I am?" She looks unconvinced, her breath hitching a little in a way that concerns him.

"Derek. Hail a cab." Nancy starts giving calm, quiet orders again when they step outside on the sidewalk. Nancy has an arm around Meredith, her wrist in one hand.

"It's a – little –"

"…easier to breathe without the AC. I know." Nancy nods. "But I want you to conserve your energy, okay? For Nancy Junior in there."

Meredith smiles a little at that.

…

"You're officially perfect."

"I am?" Meredith sits up a little on her elbows, rustling the paper on the exam table, then lies back down at Derek's expression. He smiles down at her at strokes the top of her head.

"I told you you were perfect," he teases her. "But, Nancy –"

"You're _perfect,_ " Nancy repeats, "and so is your baby." She moves the wand across Meredith's belly, beaming at whatever she sees on the monitor that's facing her.

Derek can't exhale, though. Not yet.

"But what about her breathing?"

"Anxiety," Nancy says simply. "Which is perfectly normal, for a first-time – well, you're not a first-time mom but you're a first time pregnant mom, and pregnancy is … wait, what's the technical term we use in this field? Oh yeah … _terrifying_."

Meredith smiles a little at this. "It's … kind of a relief to hear someone else say that."

"Don't let anyone tell you it's not." Nancy studies the screen for a moment. "I've been pregnant four times with five kids and I've been an OB for twenty years now … so when those yoga-yuppie moms tell you pregnancy is beautiful and amazing and a tropical resort vacation, you can just tell them where to … . Okay, look, don't get me wrong. Pregnancy _is_ amazing – but like a lot of the amazing things our bodies too, it's also … "

"Scary," Meredith offers.

"That, and a little disgusting." Nancy smiles. "I'm an OB," she says, "which means pregnancy is my life, but I got so nervous with my first that I made my husband call 911 in the middle of the night and then I made _him_ so nervous that he closed the door on the paramedic's fingers." She shudders, remembering. "Thank god Kathleen married a hand surgeon."

Meredith's eyes widen. "But you were –"

"Okay? Yes, I was fine, and so was Emma **.** The only injury was to the luckily very forgiving paramedic."

"Did this really happen?" Meredith glances doubtfully at Derek.

"Actually … it did, I remember. I was in medical school, and," he looks sheepishly at Nancy, "I told you you were being ridiculous."

"Derek is _so_ empathetic, always." Nancy laughs. "And I told _him_ he'd get it when he had his own kid, and was I right?"

Meredith smiles.

"Oh, and the twins were my fourth pregnancy but somehow I decided they were going to hurt each other. In the womb. Do you know how many multiples I'd delivered by that point?" She shakes her head. "And it's not just me. My sisters all freaked out to me, my roommate in medical school once called me crying because she was convinced her hemorrhoids meant she was losing the baby." Nancy pauses. "I'm not going to name names, but this woman _might_ be short-listed for surgeon general. I'm just saying … you're not alone."

Derek is holding one of Meredith's hands, the other resting at the top of her head, and he can feel her relax, like a sigh escaping her body. A feeling of relief courses through him too, followed by anticipation at Nancy's next words.

"So … are you ready to take a look at your baby?"

His grips tightens automatically and so does Meredith's when Nancy turns the monitor … and there it is.

Their baby.

Their black and white, flickering _baby_. By far the prettiest sonogram he's seen in nearly twenty years of medical practice.

"Derek, look … " Meredith points at the screen. "That's definitely your hair."

"I don't see any hair."

"Fine, hair follicles, then."

His face is starting to hurt from smiling so much. "And _those_ ," he points, "those are definitely your hands."

For long moment of wonder they just watch the screen, fingers folded together tightly, alternately laughing and pausing when emotion threatens to overcome.

"So." Nancy props a hand on her hip. "Do you want to know if I'm having a niece or a nephew?"

Derek and Meredith exchange a look. "Yes," they admit in unison.

"Okay, here we go." Nancy points to the monitor with one gloved finger. "I'll give you a hint … that's _not_ an eleventh finger."

"It's a _boy_ ," and one of them is crying a little, or they both are.

…

Derek touches Nancy's arm as he opens the door to the apartment, holding her back for a moment.

"I just wanted to thank you," he says. "Nancy … thank you so much."

She looks at him for a moment. "This is why you _should_ stay in touch," she says softly. "And … you're welcome."

"Derek … you need to see this."

At Meredith's summons he goes straight to the living room, and then stops in his tracks at what he sees.

Liz, Carolyn and Zola have somehow constructed an actual castle out of play-do and what looks like a hundred tongue depressors. The structure is wavering a little and there are many lumpy areas that have Zola's name all over it, but there are also actual turrets, a moat – no water, thank goodness – a drawbridge, and …

"What?" Liz frowns at her siblings. "I've been married to an architect for almost thirty years, I've picked up a few things."

"Look!" Zola is beaming, running over to grab one of each parent's hands, pointing delightedly at the colorful castle. "See what I made!"

Nancy leans over to whisper to Derek. "She takes credit like a true Shepherd, doesn't she?" And they laugh together, just for a moment, before they all go exclaim over the impressive teamwork.

…

After the tumult earlier, they decide on a quiet dinner at home, bringing in sandwiches and salads to share at the modest kitchen table.

(Or the tiny kitchen table, as Nancy calls it, but then again there are seven people in her immediate family.)

It's almost peaceful, as a sleepy Zola walks from chair to chair, leaning on various relatives to see if she's missing anything interesting. Finally, she crawls onto Meredith's lap, where she promptly falls asleep.

Derek smiles. "You wore her out."

Carolyn, seated on Meredith's other side, reaches out to stroke one of Zola's soft little cheeks with the backs of her fingers. "Such a sweetheart," she sighs.

"I'm sorry about all the chaos before," Meredith says quietly, looking at Carolyn.

"Don't apologize for worrying about my grandchild." Derek watches his mother rest a hand on Meredith's harm. "You were smart to get checked out. I'm just happy that everything's all right."

It's hard to miss how much more relaxed his mother seems, whether from the relief of Meredith's positive checkup, or the unavoidably soothing sound of Zola's sleepy breathing.

"Mom, you want some more tea?" Liz gestures at her mother's nearly-empty mug. "Nothing after midnight, but you have plenty of time."

"No thank you, dear, unless it's my granddaughter's tea – that kind won't keep me up, and I want to get a good night's rest."

"It's decaffeinated," Nancy reminds her.

"Still," Carolyn says firmly, and the three siblings exchange an amused glance; some things never change.

"Anyway." Nancy leans back in her chair and tucks her hair behind her ears. "I'm just glad to see you so calm about tomorrow, Mom."

His mother smiles. "Am I calm?"

"You are definitely calm," Liz says, "at least compared to before. The happy pills helped, huh?"

Carolyn pretends to glare at her daughter. "The happy pills did help," she admitted. "I really started to feel them when I was downstairs, and then the pep talk she gave me when I was having those tests helped even more. She made everything seem so clear and simple, like it's going to be fine. And … I believe her."

"Because it _is_ going to be fine," Liz responds, and the other siblings chime in to agree.

"That must have been some talk," Nancy murmurs from her seat next to Derek. She raises her voice so the rest of the table can hear. "Who gave you the pep talk, Mom, was it Dr. McGovern or Nurse Shelley?"

Carolyn is busy twining the string of her tea bag carefully around her spoon, one of her favorite tricks to get the most uses out of each bag. "Neither." She glances up at her children. "Dr. McGovern was very kind and supportive and so was her nurse, but the pep talk – that was from Addie."

* * *

 _TBC. I love reviews like Zola loves lollipops! So pretty please press the button and keep me speedy._

 _I had to have them find out the gender. I liked the combination of relief about the pregnancy and gender-learning on the actual show, and of course I lifted the line about the eleventh finger. I liked the way the show explored Meredith's nervousness around the pregnancy, which I thought was very in-character in that season. Oh, and the song for this title? Always makes me think of Meredith. One of the best musical moments of Season 2, I think, and that was a season with a ton of them._

 _...also, in case it wasn't clear, I'm not a fan of judging pregnant women - especially strangers! - but Meredith is expert at handling obnoxious people, as we know..._


	8. across the universe

**A/N:** I'm running out but I really wanted to get this update through first. Thank you again for all the response to the story - please keep it coming, it makes me speedy!

* * *

 _across the universe  
_...

* * *

"It was Addie?" Nancy's face registers confusion as she looks at her mother. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." Carolyn gives her daughter a surprised look. "I think I can recognize Addison after all these years. And anyway, we spoke about Aunt Vi."

Carolyn glances at Meredith. "My husband's sister needed the same surgery years ago," she explains. "Violet was just terrified of hospitals and Addie did the procedure. And it went very well."

Derek nods. This is why he assumed his mother was fixated on Addison as a surgeon. Aunt Vi had never been any real danger, but his years practicing medicine have made him accustomed to patients' occasionally unusual – but still deeply held – requests and superstitions.

"Derek," Carolyn turns to him. "She said she spoke with you."

"Addison did," Derek repeats faintly.

"Right. You knew she was coming to see me, didn't you?"

"I…" Derek winces as he feels a sharp pain in his right shin – after all these years, he'd almost forgotten his sisters' primary method of private sibling communication. "Yes, I, uh … yes," he says finally, glaring at Nancy, whose pointed-toe shoes are clearly the culprit.

"It was very kind of her," Carolyn says.

"Especially when you're not really her biggest fan," Nancy points out, looking surprised when Liz glares at her. "What? You know Mom never liked her."

"Nancy," Carolyn reproves, "that's not true. And it's not fair." Carolyn glances at Meredith. "My daughters like to exaggerate," she says apologetically.

"What did I do?" Liz spreads her hands innocently.

"I didn't _not like_ Addie," Carolyn explains. "I didn't think she was right for Derek. And I stand by that," she adds, "but I know they loved each other once and they were so young."

"Carly's age." Liz shakes her head, and Derek has a moment of feeling very old when he realizes that several of his sisters' children are now the same age as or older than he was when he and Addison met.

"And Addie was very close with my girls," Carolyn continues, looking fondly at Nancy and Liz. "And so good to Amy – patient with her, and that wasn't always easy."

Nancy makes a sort of a snorting sound and Carolyn frowns. "You're still holding California against her, then? Amy is coming to the hospital tomorrow, Nancy. So I hope you've given some thought to forgiveness."

Nancy doesn't answer, but Derek sees her wince as, undoubtedly, Liz's rubber-toed tennis shoe meets her shin.

For a fleeting moment, Derek thinks that if the Shepherd siblings ever needed to be identified by x-rays, the damage to their shins from years of under-the-table attacks would be a dead giveaway.

"Well." She rests both hands on the table. "Look at me going on and on when it's getting so late and I've already bored your daughter into dreamland." She smiles at Meredith and Zola. "I think I'll turn in."

The three Shepherd siblings look at each other across the table, and Derek is conscious of the moment they agree to keep the mystery surrounding Addison's apparent visit to their mother to themselves. The last time the Derek can remember having this strong an unspoken agreement to keep a secret with his older sisters was when seven-year-old Amy discovered her carefully printed note to Santa in their mother's bedroom and cornered each of her siblings in turn to demand the truth.

"Good idea, Mom." Nancy glances at Liz. "I was just wondering – do you remember what Addie was wearing?" Nancy is clearly trying to keep her tone casual, but Liz can't seem to help giving her a puzzled look.

Carolyn chuckles. "You two and your fashion plates. Don't get too excited, she was just dressed like a doctor."

Nancy exchanges a glance with Liz, who's wearing the same style of green canvas tennis shoes she has since high school – Nancy always came the closest to Addison's interest in clothes, so it made sense for her to ask the question.

"Scrubs," Liz suggests.

Carolyn nods, then pushes her chair back carefully to stand.

"I'll help you." Liz carries the mugs away from the table to the sink and then reaches for her mother's arm.

"I changed your diapers, Elizabeth, I don't think you need to _help me_ get ready for bed," Carolyn says firmly. "I'm having surgery tomorrow, I'm not an invalid."

"Right." Liz blushes a little.

Nancy exchanges a glance with Derek. "Lizzie's staying with me tonight," she says. "We should … discuss logistics for tomorrow."

"Liz, you're staying with your sister?" Carolyn frowns. "What about the children?"

"It's just Chloe at home now, Mom, you know that. And she's seventeen."

"Is Cooper-"

"Yes, he's home." Liz turns to Nancy. "Does Mom monitor your child-care too?"

"She does," Nancy says, "but at least the twins can passably be called children. Mom … Chloe's going to college next year. She doesn't need Liz to tuck her in."

"Mm." Carolyn brushes an invisible crumb off her shirt. "Whatever you say. I know you girls are modern mothers."

"She always does this," Liz says, while Nancy rolls her eyes.

"All right, I'm going to go to bed, which means you can feel free to complain about me once I'm out of the room." Carolyn pauses. "Aren't you going to kiss your mother goodnight?"

And the three Shepherd siblings – each of whom is at least a head taller than Carolyn at this point – exchange sheepish glances and then do so.

"Meredith, dear," Carolyn smiles at her. "You get some rest – no, don't stand up, not when my granddaughter is sleeping so nicely. I'll see you in the morning."

…

Nancy turns on her sister as soon as their mother's footsteps fade away down the hall. "You're _so_ obvious, Lizzie."

"Because you're the queen of subtlety?" Liz glares at her sister.

"Okay, forget it. Mom has the ears of a bat – as you all remember from our curfew days – so we don't have much time to talk about this."

Meredith glances at Derek.

"We have to wait until the water starts running," Liz explains. "There's a science to it."

"I think I'll put Zola down," Meredith suggests, but Nancy holds out a hand.

"Just wait for a few minutes," she pleads, "until we figure this thing out. We can whisper, we won't wake her."

"Nancy, _you_ can whisper?" Liz looks doubtful.

Luckily, the water start running in Carolyn's bathroom before Nancy can respond … and then the real sleuthing begins.

Back and forth the sisters banter, trying to figure out what's going on, while Derek turns the information he hasn't shared over in his mind, wondering about its relevance.

"Why didn't she tell anyone she was visiting?"

"Was she visiting or was she working?"

"What do you mean?"

Mom said she was dressed like a doctor."

"So she's working."

"Then why is it such a secret?"

"Maybe it's top- _secret_ working." Nancy points her teaspoon at the others. "She's involved in some kind of experiment for the CIA. What?" She laughs a little. "It's the only answer that makes sense."

"Nancy…" Liz studies her sister solemnly.

"Yes?"

"You're nuts."

Nancy makes a face. "What's your brilliant answer, then?"

"Witness protection," Liz suggests.

"Addie's great and all, but even she isn't going to break witness protection to tell her former mother-in-law her very minor surgery is going to go fine."

"She's not a patient. Patients don't wear scrubs."

"And Mom always knows when people are sick. Remember when Lizzie had mono and didn't want anyone to know because she kissed Patrick Mc-"

"Guys." Derek cuts in, looking from sister to sister. "I saw Mark again."

And he fills them in.

"Weird," Nancy breathes, leaning back in her seat. "It's just … weird."

"And Amy's living with them?" Lizzie purses her lips. "Are they … separated, do you think, and Amy's-"

"With Mark? _Gross_." Nancy wrinkles her nose.

"That's what Amy said when I asked," Derek admits. It would be pretty hard to fake that kind of reaction; in his experience, Amy is an experienced liar but not a particularly good one.

"'Gross?' You're one to talk, Nancy," Liz reproves.

Derek is confused. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," Nancy assures him.

Liz raises an eyebrow.

Nancy sighs. "We all go through a Mark Sloan phase, that's all she means."

"Wait, what do you –"

"Come on, Derek, he's _Mark_."

Derek's eyes widen. "You – and Mark? Nancy!"

"What? It was just-"

"Please – spare me the details." Derek shakes his head. "Just – let's stay focused here."

"Honestly, Liz." Nancy glares at her sister.

"Sorry." Liz holds her hands up innocently. "Wait, he knows about Kathleen, right?"

"…I think I'm going to bed." Derek starts to push his chair back.

"Don't be mad," Nancy rests a pleading hand on his arm. "Not when Mom's surgery is tomorrow."

Derek is surprised by her tone. "Nance, she's going to be fine. You of all people know what a minor procedure this is."

"Still." Nancy stares at the table top.

"I'm not mad, anyway." Derek pats her shoulder. "I just need to go wash those images out of my brain."

…

"Nancy seems worried."

"She's a worrier." Derek takes the toothbrush out of his mouth. "If Mom were a patient it would be different."

"But she's not a patient."

"Right." He scrubs his teeth for another few moments, then rinses and smiles at Meredith in the mirror. She's standing next to him with her hair scraped back and a washcloth in one hand, and she looks beautiful. He tells her so.

"You are very easily distractible, you know that?"

"I have heard that, yes." He leans over to kiss her. "How about distracting – am I distracting?"

"If I say no, you won't believe me."

"This is true." And he kisses her again before she can form a retort.

She's laughing a little when he pulls back, her eyes very bright in the light.

"Tired?" He lifts an eyebrow.

She shakes her head. "But we have company."

"This is _also_ true."

They both lean around the door jamb to see the big bed where, right in the middle, Zola is stretched out with one arm around a plush rabbit and the thumb of her other hand hovering near her mouth. She hasn't been sucking her thumb, but she does seem to like to keep it nearby. Meredith once compared it to the alcoholic who keeps a bottle of the stuff around just to prove they don't _really_ need it.

"We could move her."

"We could."

They exchange a look and both shake their heads at once.

…

If you had asked him a few years ago if there was something better than spontaneous sex with the woman he loves – even spontaneous sex when his mother is sleeping on the opposite side of the hallway – he would have considered the question ridiculous.

But that was before he became a father.

Now, lying down in the minimal space allotted to him – Derek has always been a little surprised and rather impressed at how much of a king size bed can be taken up by an unusually slight woman and a very small toddler – he is convinced that there is nothing better than right here, right now.

He turns onto his side to face his wife.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay." She nods. "I am," she adds more firmly. They're both speaking softly so as not to wake Zola, who has been sleeping deeply since she climbed into her mother's lap at the kitchen table, barely even waking when they changed her for bed.

"I know you are."

"Derek. I'm sorry I … freaked out, before."

"You don't have anything to be sorry about. I'm just glad you're okay. That you're both okay."

He reaches over the warm little sleeping bundle of Zola to place one hand on the spot where his son is growing. Their son. Their _son._

"You knew we were okay," she says tentatively.

"I knew you were okay," he confirms, then pauses. "I knew you were okay, but … I had a moment," he admits. "But what's more important is that you know."

"Seeing him was good." She smiles. "I liked seeing him."

"Yeah? I liked seeing him too."

"I think I'll like it even more when he comes out and we can actually touch him."

"I agree."

Zola shifts, kicking one of her little feet and starting to wake up; Derek and Meredith reach out as one to soothe her back to sleep. "Shh," Zola mumbles. "Sleepy time." Her eyes flutter shut again and her breathing deepens.

"You heard your daughter." Meredith smiles. "We'd better do what she says."

So they do.

…

"No arguments," Carolyn says firmly the next morning; they're all in the kitchen by seven, including Liz and Nancy, who drove in from Brooklyn, and Zola, whom Carolyn insists on holding on her lap while Nancy reviews the hospital's checklist.

"But, Mom-"

" _No_ , Derek. Elizabeth and Nancy are bringing me. Amy and Kathleen will come later and so can you. There's no need to sit around a hospital waiting room when you could be with your family."

Zola gazes up at Derek through impossibly long eyelashes, one of her hands fussing with the lapel of his mother's lightweight cardigan. She seems to find it very amusing to hear her grandmother saying _no_ to her father, and repeats it with a little giggle.

Derek can't help smiling at this. "Well, if you're going to gang up on me, then fine. But we're not going far. And you have to keep us posted. And we'll see you when you wake up."

…

They don't go far. Derek's sisters keep him posted via text message, and since it's another humid scorcher outside it's perfectly appealing to stay in the air-conditioned apartment playing with Zola.

"This one," Zola instructs Derek, handing him a wooden sheep with a red plastic peg on its back and pointing to the cow-shaped hole in her farm puzzle.

"Ooh," Meredith sits up higher, watching. "She's a nonconformist, see? Square peg in the round hole."

"Sheep peg in the cow hole doesn't have the same ring, does it." Derek frowns.

"No … and in fact, it sounds kind of wrong." Meredith laughs and Zola does too, even if she doesn't understand why.

"Zo," Derek says patiently, pointing at the wooden puzzle board, "look, sweetie, see how the…" his voice trails off when he sees her sweet, expectant little face. "You're right," he says instead. "That's just where it goes." He places the sheep awkwardly adopt the cow-shaped hole and Zola beams, patting it.

"Good job," she praises her father and Meredith apparently has to cover her mouth to avoid laughing out loud.

"Traitor." Derek mock-glares at Meredith. "I'd like to see you refuse her."

"I'm working on it," Meredith says, not very believably.

They venture out only across the street, for coffee for Derek and a chance to stretch their legs. The air-conditioning in the Coffee Bean is thankfully strong and they find a small round table. Meredith sips iced herbal tea, her expression making very clear just what she thinks of that choice. Zola takes the opposite position, entranced by the plastic squeezable sack of applesauce she chose herself from the display with a level of enthusiasm suggesting it was made of solid gold. The packaging is bright and appealing, Derek will give her that, and it does claim to be all natural and organic and –

"Hey!"

…and it has considerable ballast for such a small package. Zola and Meredith are both laughing as Derek wipes applesauce from most of his exposed skin. He tastes some that landed on his thumb.

"It's pretty good," he admits.

"Sorry, Daddy," Zola says sweetly, then adds, "more, please? More sauce?"

"You know what, Zo? I think we'll stick to old-fashioned applesauce with a spoon that's not quite so destructive next time…"

They go home together so Derek can change into something less fruit-flavored and sticky. His blackberry buzzes as he's toweling dry his hair.

"Mer – she's out!"

"That's great!" Meredith appears in the doorway, Zola on her hip. "How did it go?"

"Perfectly, according to Nancy." He exhales a relieved breath. He wasn't worried – he really wasn't – but apparently his heart was, because it's suddenly beating far more smoothly and slowly.

…

He kisses Meredith and Zola goodbye and heads out the door for the hospital. Amy isn't there yet, that's what Nancy said. Which is good, because he's not sure he's ready for a confrontation with her and he's definitely not ready for her to have a confrontation with Nancy.

This is what he's thinking about, half a block from the hospital, when he glances around mechanically and recognizes the man walking down the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

It's Mark, and he sees Derek at the same time. There's a moment when neither man does anything. Derek is tempted to call across the street. _What the hell is going on?_ But he remembers that Addison seems to have put aside whatever was going on to try to comfort his mother, and he appreciates it. If she can do that, then he can do this.

So he pointedly looks away, doesn't acknowledge Mark at all. _Leave us alone_ , that's what Mark requested, and Derek is going to respect his wishes.

He walks along the street without glancing toward Mark, not until he's close enough to MSC to feel the cool blast of air conditioning from the sliding doors, and looks up to see the Mark is standing right next to him.

Silently, both men cross the threshold to MSC.

Mark turns to him just before the security desk. "I guess, uh, I guess you want an explanation."

"Only if you want to give me one," Derek says honestly.

…

Every hospital cafeteria looks the same. This is Derek's experience, anyway. Even at MSC, with its organic offerings, fresh juice bar, and padded seating.

Maybe it's because every hospital cafeteria is filled with people who wish they didn't have to be there.

Maybe it's because those wishes make the air feel heavy with anticipation, fear, and grief.

Maybe it's because the people sitting at the little blond wood tables are too used to hearing bad news.

"I'm so sorry," Derek says quietly. The words are overused but they are sometimes the only words you _can_ use.

Or maybe MSC is different because everyone who comes to MSC either has cancer or loves someone who does. But like everything else, cancer is relative. This is what Mark reminds Derek, his gaze fixed on the grains of the wooden tabletop, and this is what Derek learns: that it's breast cancer. That's it's classed as minor to moderate in terms of aggression with some lymph involvement.

Some of the pieces start falling into place: Mark's drawn face and haggard figure, his hanging around the area adjacent to MSC, even the unpolished appearance of his daughter, whose clothes and uncombed hair probably reflected a father who wasn't used to preparing her for her day.

… or parents with more on their minds than appearance.

"But it's – treatable," Derek says tentatively.

"Very treatable," Mark says woodenly. "This subtype has an extremely high success rate with preoperative therapy – it can even minimize the surgical requirements."

"Oh." Derek pauses. "Well, that's ... good news. Very good news."

"That's not the problem," Mark shakes his head. He reaches into his bag and pulls something out to show Derek, his expression grim. " _This_ is the problem."

* * *

 _TBC. All will make sense soon. And don't hate me TOO much. Fuel my muse with your feedback, pretty please! xoxo, your shameless writer._


	9. if you live like that

**A/N: Thank you** so much for continuing to read this story and for the reviews - I love them all, and if you're anonymous and I can't PM you a gratitude-hug, then just know I wish I could. Now for Chapter 9...

* * *

 _if you live like that_  
...

* * *

The filmy black and white sheet of paper in Mark's hand needs no further explanation. Even if Derek hadn't just received a similar printout the day before … it would be obvious.

"She's pregnant," he says slowly.

Mark nods. "Fifteen weeks."

Derek is quiet for a moment, waiting for Mark to take the lead. What do you say under these circumstances? _Congratulations?_ Seems callous. _I'm sorry?_ Seems cruel. So he says nothing at all.

"I didn't want to try again," Mark says quietly, his gaze fixed on the paper in his hand. "Not because I didn't want a baby, but because after everything that happened ... I didn't want to put any of us through it again. Especially her."

Derek nods.

"I wanted to focus on the kid we have and … live our lives, you know? She's 44, Derek. Carrying a baby at this age has all kinds of risks and that was before. I was already against it."

Derek nods.

"But … here we are." Mark studies the sonogram. "This is her last embryo. We did a harvest a year or so after she had Vivian, they're almost five years old at this point and this is her last one. She waited, you know, and then she got pregnant about … two and a half years ago now and you know what happened after that. Everything since then has been hormone shots and …."

 _Heartbreak,_ he doesn't finish the sentence but it feels as loud as if he did. Derek nods.

"You know about Julian?"

Julian must be the baby they lost at 19 weeks. Hearing his name makes it especially poignant; Derek swallows hard, nodding.

"Well, the two we tried after him didn't implant. The next one did, but we lost the pregnancy at eleven weeks. That one was a girl. _Faith,_ " he says, pronouncing her name with a sad sort of irony. "The next two didn't implant. Then they did the last two and one implanted and … that's it. Her egg reserve is gone, there won't be any more after this."

 _Their last chance._ Mark doesn't have to say the words for Derek to hear them.

"You know with IVF you know right away … it's days, not weeks. The embryo had barely implanted when she got the diagnosis." Mark's voice sounds thick, and something else. Almost bitter, maybe. And then Derek realizes why.

"She's delaying treatment," Mark says woodenly.

Derek thinks about what he knows about breast cancer treatment in pregnancy. "I thought there were possibilities after the first trimester for chemo, or-"

"There are. And there were other options, earlier. They wanted to start treatment right away. The doctors here – they _want_ to treat her, Derek. She's the one refusing. She won't."

"She won't-"

"She won't do it. Any of it."

"Surgery …?" Derek asks tentatively.

"There are surgical options, at least as a stopgap, but she won't do that either. I must have printed out fifty articles on limited placenta-crossing for anesthesia in the second trimester – she doesn't care. She won't listen to anyone. And she doesn't want to _see_ anyone. Except us, I mean, but other than that…."

Mark's voice trails off; his jaw is set and he looks miserable.

"They're monitoring her, here." He says the word _monitoring_ like it tastes bad. "Like we're just waiting for –"

He stops talking abruptly, changing course.

"The only thing she'll do are these – holistic things. Can you believe it?" He shakes his head. "Addison Montgomery, non-traditional medicine. We were in Switzerland for a while – back and forth."

"Switzerland?"

Mark nods. "We only got home from the last trip a few days before we ran into you. Switzerland was Bizzy's suggestion, actually – she told us there's this … alternative treatment center there that she swears saved her life."

 _Saved her life._ So Bizzy was sick too?

"Bizzy had cancer?"

Mark looks confused. "No."

"Oh. You said the, uh, center in Switzerland saved her life."

"No, it saved her _wife,_ "Mark corrects him.

"Her wife?" Derek is confused.

"Oh – yeah, Bizzy's a lesbian. Water under the bridge." Mark makes a dismissive gesture. "She's been pretty decent actually, arranged the jet for us to go back and forth to Switzerland a few times and she made so many donations to the place it moved things along pretty smoothly."

"That's … good," Derek says tentatively. He tries to picture Bizzy as a positive influence in their lives, or at least neutral. "So Bizzy's, uh, a grandmother."

Mark nods.

"What's that like?"

"Well, she told Vivian not to eat too many lollipops or she'd get fat."

Derek's brow crinkles as he pictures the skinny little girl he's seen a couple times now. "That's … special."

"Yeah." Mark snorts.

Derek nods. "Did it help? Switzerland?"

He shrugs. "Viv learned a little German."

Mark suddenly looks like he might cry and Derek is nervous; turning slightly away, he tries to give the other man some privacy.

"Vivian … uh, you know, it's hard for her," Mark says finally, still fingering the black and white sonogram sheet. "We were … we had a good thing, the three of us. We did. For years. Now it doesn't feel like there's any time to be a family, things are just – but at least we're adults, we get it. She's not even six."

"I'm sorry," Derek says quietly, not sure what else to say.

"We took her out of school early, to go to Switzerland the first time. She's … freaked out now, won't stay with the nanny and it was too hard on Addison to try to leave her and listen to her scream. So she pretty much goes wherever we go. And without Addison at home ..." Mark shakes his head, looking conflicted. "She loved school, before. Liked to do things herself." He pauses. "When we lost Julian … and then Faith … it was hard."

"I'm sorry." He says it again, because it's all there is to say – but also because he means it. Handling everything on their plate including a five-year-old sounds incredibly difficult.

Mark exhales. "Amy, you know, she had a consult in New York and she was checking on the house for us, when we were in Switzerland, and then Addison was admitted when we got back." His voice trails off. "Anyway, Viv's wiling to stay with Amy so it gives me a break, let's me spend time with … she took a leave from work. Amy did. We told her she didn't need to, but…"

"…but you can't tell Amy anything," Derek offers.

"Right. She's, uh, she's been amazing," Mark says quietly.

"You've done a lot for her. You and Addison."

"She doesn't owe us anything."

"I know," Derek says quickly. "I just meant … I'm sure she's glad to be able to help out."

Mark is studying the table.

"She's … here now?" Derek asks tentatively. "Addison, I mean."

"Yeah." Mark is tracing the pattern on the tabletop with his finger now. "She doesn't want to be, but – well. Yes. She's here."

Derek nods, his throat feeling thick. "I'm so sorry. I … can't imagine how you feel."

Mark looks at him for a moment. "Angry," he says simply.

Derek nods again, sympathetically.

"No, you don't get it, Derek. The thing is that-"

"Mark?"

Both men turn to see Amy standing feet away in the cafeteria, holding Vivian by the hand.

"We couldn't find you," Vivian says accusingly. "You were supposed to be downstairs, you _said_ you would, and we couldn't find you."

It's the most Derek's heard her say at one time. She has a surprisingly husky voice.

"I'm sorry, baby, I didn't realize how late it was." Mark shakes his head, pushes back his chair and stands. "Amy – I didn't –"

"It's fine," Amy says quickly. "See, Viv, I told you there was nothing to worry about. He's right here."

Mark rests a hand on the top of Vivian's head; she's still holding Amy's hand and scowling.

Amy glances nervously at Derek. "Is Mom, um…"

"She's out." Derek looks at his blackberry. "Still in recovery, not in her room yet. It went well."

"The others are there?"

 _You mean Nancy._

"Yeah. I haven't been yet. I ran into Mark and …" His voice trails off, and Derek sees Mark and Amy exchange a glance.

"Viv … let's go, baby. Amy needs to get going too." Mark holds out his hand. "You hungry?"

"No." Vivian stares at Derek. "Why's he here?"

"He … is Amy's brother."

Derek's not sure he's been described that way since rehab, but okay.

"Amy has a brother?" She sounds suspicious.

"Only sometimes," Amy mutters.

"Daddy … " Vivian tugs on the hem of Mark's shirt. "I want to go. You _said_ we could," she adds.

"I know, Viv. We can go now."

Mark hefts the canvas tote bag onto his shoulder and takes Vivian hand, then turns to Derek. His mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words come out.

It suddenly feels terribly important for Derek to say … _something, anything,_ but all that comes out is _good luck._

"Good luck?" Amy repeats when they're alone. "Seriously?"

"Shut up," he mutters, staring at the pattern in the parquet floor.

Amy glances at him when he looks up. "He told you, huh?"

"Yeah."

Amy exhales a long breath. "Sucks," she says simply and Derek just nods in agreement.

It's not the most elegant nor the most articulate summary, but he can't deny that it's accurate.

…

Derek walks outside for some air, making an excuse to Amy, and just breathes in lungfuls of hot, stale, distinctly Manhattan humidity. Addison, sick. Addison, pregnant. _Fifteen weeks._ Mark's exhaustion, the aura of distraction, his pallor, their mysterious silences.

Pregnant and refusing treatment and she's here at MSC … being monitored. Waiting for the cancer to spread through her body or – watching it spread. Refusing treatment and there's nothing Mark can do about it, not for her and not for the baby she's carrying.

He dials the phone, suddenly desperate to hear her voice.

"How's your mom?" Meredith says in lieu of hello.

"She's still in recovery. I'm going to go wait in her room."

"Good," she says.

He asks her about Zola, lingering on the phone with any excuse because the familiar sound of her voice is a balm to his frazzled nerves, his tense muscles.

"Derek," she asks gently, after patiently fulfilling his request to describe the bagels she and Zola purchased a few blocks away, "…what's wrong?"

Of course she can tell something's wrong, even though he's done little more than provide a rote update, ask questions, and, well … breathe.

What is he going to say? He can't tell her about his conversation with Mark. The last thing Meredith needs to be thinking about is another heartbreaking, high-risk pregnancy. For a moment he tries to put himself in Mark's shoes, thinks about what it must feel to have that protective surge of watching the woman you love growing your child – except not be able to protect her at all.

"Just … family things," he says vaguely.

"I get that. Is Amy there?"

"She's here."

"Derek …"

"Yeah?" For a moment he's afraid she'll push it and he won't have the strength not to tell her, but he wills himself not to be so selfish

"Zola wants to talk. But if you need to get to your mom…"

"No, I have time." He smiles just thinking about his daughter. "Put her on. No, wait. Mer …"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too. Derek … are you sure you're-"

"I'm fine. Everything's fine. Put Zola on, and I'll call you later after I see my mom, okay?"

"Okay," she says slowly.

There are some muffled noises and then he hears his daughter's excited voice. "Hi, Daddy!"

Zola sounds very far away; she hasn't quite grasped the concept of speaking _into_ the phone, though she enjoys speaking near it.

" _Hi,_ sweetie, are you having a fun day with Mommy?"

There's a long pause.

"Hi, Daddy!" Zola calls out again happily.

Derek smothers his laugher with his hand. Zola hasn't _quite_ grasped the generalities of phone conversation yet either, but it's worth it just to hear her adorable voice.

"Hi, Zozo," he repeats obligingly. "I miss you."

"Yeah!" She sounds as enthusiastic as if he's just suggested something involving princesses. Then there's a clattering sound.

"…Derek?"

"I'm here."

"She got distracted," Meredith's voice sounds amused. "I can try to entice her…"

"No, it's fine. I just wanted to say hello."

"Wait, she's back … oh, Zo, that's so sweet," he hears her say to their daughter, and then it's Meredith's voice again.

"She brought you a cup of tea," Meredith says, "and now she's pouring it into the phone."

…

He holds the phone call close to his heart as he walks slowly back into the hospital. He's been practicing medicine his entire adult life; it's not news to him that life is unfair, that illness strikes cruelly, that health is fragile. But he can't shake Mark's haunted eyes, Vivian's scowl, Amy standing between the two of them.

 _Amy._

She's always somehow in the middle of things, even as she's stayed away from the family for years. His mother talks to her, he knows that. They're in touch. He's not sure about the other sisters, but Nancy … Nancy's a different story.

"Derek!"

Kathleen is hugging him before he's halfway in the room, and he draws back to see her. She was as gawky as Nancy when they were kids and he's still not used to her softer, more maternal shape. She's wearing eyeglasses on a chain around her neck and has let some grey highlight her dark hair; it's clearly fashion rather than neglect, but he's startled by how much it makes her resemble their mother.

She touches the side of his face. "You look different," she says.

"He has a kid." Nancy shrugs. "Everyone changes when they have a kid."

Liz looks up from the pink chair by the empty bed. "Derek … have you heard anything?"

"No. Isn't she in recovery?"

"I mean from Amy," Liz says.

Derek sees Nancy and Kathleen exchange a glance. "Amy's coming?"

"You know she is," Liz says patiently. "And Derek, the nurse says Mom should be back within twenty minutes."

"Good. Did any of you see whether –" He stops talking when he sees that none of his sisters is paying attention; they're all staring behind him. He turns around slowly to see Amy framed in the open doorway.

"…hi." She looks from sibling to another.

No one responds.

"O-kay, just as non-awkward as I thought it would be," she says in a falsely bright tone. "Derek?"

"Hi, Amy," he says patiently.

"Kath, Lizzie, remember me? Do you hate me too?"

"Amy … just take it easy," Liz suggests.

Nancy snorts faintly at her choice of words.

"And _Nancy_ ," Amy says. "Hi. Don't worry, I already know you hate me, you've made that very clear."

"I'm going to go get some coffee." Nancy grabs for her purse and pushes past Kathleen.

"Nance," Liz is standing up now, her voice placating; she rests a hand on Nancy's arm and her sister shakes it off.

"Come on, Nancy, it's been _years_." Amy props her hand on her hip. "Can't you just-"

"Maybe _your_ memory is short, Amy, but I think we all know why that is."

"Nancy, Amy, why don't we sit down together and-"

" _Don't_ shrink us, Kath," Nancy says sharply.

"Fine." Kathleen lifts both hands. "But you're not fighting in front of Mom. She needs calm. Quiet. She's recovering. If you can't be calm then take it somewhere else."

"If she needs calm then maybe Hurricane Amy should just blow out of here for another few years?"

Amy inhales audibly at Nancy's words, then turns on her heel and leaves.

For a moment the other four Shepherd siblings just watch the empty space where Amy was standing.

"Nice, Nance," Kathleen mutters.

"How is this _my_ fault? You know what she-"

"Nancy," Liz reproves, "Mom wants you to try to forgive her."

"Mom wants a lot of things."

Derek looks from one sister to the other. "I'm going to go get some coffee."

Nancy glances at him. "Get me one? Not-"

"-too much foam. I know, Nancy."

...

Derek finds Amy in the lobby, staring out at the bleak but busy sidewalk in front of the hospital.

"She's never going to forgive me," Amy says quietly without turning around.

"You don't know that." He joins her at the window.

"You really believe she might?"

"I do."

For long moments they just stare outside together, not speaking.

Then Amy speaks, finally, without looking at him. "You know what, Derek? I have no idea why this is, 'cause I've seen a _lot_ of dark stuff with you, you know, but … you are an actual, honest-to-god optimist."

"I am?"

"Yeah. You are."

"What about you? You're a pessimist?"

"I'm an addict." She shrugs. "You don't need an _ist_ when you're an addict."

"What about Nancy?"

"Nancy? _She_ is a-"

"-realist," interrupts a voice that sounds distinctly unamused. It's Nancy, arms folded, standing behind them. "And another word for realist is _right._ "

"You want to have it out, Nance? Let's have it out."

Amy, a full head shorter than her older sister, plants her feet like she used to as a child and meets her eyes.

Derek is left standing between them. "Let's not," he begins tentatively, looking from one to the other.

"No," Nancy says, propping a hand on her hip and staring down at her little sister. " _Let's_."

* * *

 _TBC, of course._

 _So many of you knew exactly where this chapter was heading. You are THAT good. I need to up my game. Poor Mark and Addison. But you know how much I love them, so even if this is a tough story line, I'll do my best to have their backs._

 _Next chapter will be a flashback to the wedding you've heard about from a few years ago, about which Nancy is still apparently holding a grudge ... which was also the first time Mark/Addison/Derek/Meredith all saw each other together._

 _Not to be a review hound, but - yeah, please review and thank you, thank you, thank you!_


	10. INTERLUDE: little miss s

**A/N: The wedding chapter.** This is full flashback and it's _long._ Next chapter we're back in real time. Sorry for the long delay between chapters; the next one should be faster. And thank you so much for reviewing and commenting. You guys are awesome-plus.

* * *

INTERLUDE

 _little miss s_

...

* * *

It's perfectly fine.

Liz even called him to say that Addison wanted to clear her RSVP with Derek first, not wanting him to feel uncomfortable at the wedding. With Liz he brushed it off, but he was grudgingly appreciative. Clara, his oldest niece, was always particularly close to Addison, sweet and thoughtful even as a child. And it's just a wedding. It's just one day on the beach, in and out, and two nights by the ocean with Meredith. A getaway, even.

Meredith seems much more nervous about seeing his family than about seeing Addison, presumably since she's already met her. Derek's seen her twice since the divorce and they've been cordial, civil, even working together on a patient during her second visit.

Perfectly fine.

His hands are sweating a little anyway, but he blames the low sun hanging over the ocean instead, like a heavy ball about to drop into the waves.

"Everything looks beautiful," Meredith says as they approach; there's a big open white tent in the sand, supported on dainty-looking birch poles, fairy lights strung everywhere.

"Nancy takes weddings very seriously," Derek says.

"Wait, I thought Clara was Liz's daughter."

"She is. She's Nancy's goddaughter."

"Oh."

"Nancy's always taken that pretty seriously." He rolls his eyes a little. "Actually … Nancy takes everything seriously. When it's convenient."

"You have a lot of sisters."

" _That_ is putting it mildly." He rests a hand on Meredith's shoulder, enjoying the delicate fabric of her dress. "But they're going to love you."

…

Shepherd weddings are always chaotic.

It's the Shepherd's Third Law, the first two being _Shepherd Christmases are always white_ and _Shepherd bathrooms are always full when you need one._

His family is swarming around them, exchanging greetings, cheek kisses, exclamations, and then moving on to the next group. Derek feels like nothing less than a flower being pollinated by bee after buzzing bee, each intent on him just for a moment and then skipping on.

As the reception pounds on, he leads Meredith to the little table just under the tent that's set with champagne glasses to get a bit of a breather.

And sees they're not the only ones who had this idea.

"Oh. Hi." Addison immediately takes her hand off Mark's arm when Derek and Meredith walk up, which makes one mean little thought flash through his mind: _now it's okay for you touch him, Addison, it's when we were married that you should have kept your hands off._

"Mark." He nods at his former friend and Mark nods back, seeming to be taking Derek's lead. Mark's holding a blonde toddler with a pout and a fistful of sandy shells. She's wearing an elaborate brocade dress in shades of pink and a pink satin headband. Derek watches with amusement as the little girl reaches up, removes her headband with the hand not holding her shells, and hurls it into a wet patch of sand.

"Vivian," Addison shakes her head, smiling. "You know what they say about taking off one accessory before you leave the house…" she adds, laughing weakly at her own joke and looking rather uncomfortable as she crouches down to retrieve the headband.

Vivian drops the shells, smudging a wet streak of muddy sand along her pink skirt. Derek is interested to see that neither Mark nor Addison seems to care; all toddlers are messy, he knows, but most aren't such fashion plates either.

"Down, down," Vivian protests, shoving at Mark and then tugging on his tie with one dirty little hand. Once he sets her down in the sand her pout disappears and she beams at all four adults.

"She's cute," Derek says, for lack of anything better to say; it's true, but it's not like he would have said the opposite were it not.

"She's trouble," Mark says, smiling.

Vivian ambles along in little white party shoes, stopping in front of Meredith. "Pretty," she says, reaching up to touch the lacy hem of her dress. Derek agrees; it's one of those dresses that just sort of looked like a pile of lace when Meredith was holding and then transformed when she put it on, draping around her perfectly in delicate waves.

"Don't touch, Vivi," Addison is crouching behind her in a flash, tugging her away from Meredith and getting an outraged shriek in response.

"I'm sorry. I stop noticing how dirty her hands are, but your dress really is beautiful." Addison smiles apologetically.

"It's fine." Meredith smiles back. "I prefer a little dirt so I don't have to worry if I'm going to spill something on it."

Clara and Brett's golden retriever, or _Best Dog,_ as he was credited in the program, bounds over to inspect Vivian just then, or perhaps to see whether she's a large squeaky toy. Sand flies up from his feet, hitting all of them.

A delighted Vivian fists handfuls of his soft golden fur.

"Gentle, sweetheart." Addison reminds her.

"Gentle," Vivian repeats. "Nice doggie, very gentle. _Ask first_ ," Vivian adds firmly.

Mark is smiling. "See, it's not like she doesn't _know_ the rules…"

Addison is kneeling next to Vivian in the sand, apparently not caring about the sand's effect on her own dress, sharing in the outpouring of love from the golden. _Oliver,_ that's his name, as the little lacy sign hanging around his neck reminds them. Oliver turns from one fan to the next, showering them with licks. Vivian laughs with delight and Addison looks almost as entranced. Derek had forgotten that she liked dogs; it was so seemingly at odds with her persona when dogs were so messy, filled with boundless energy and so needy.

Vivian looks up at Meredith. "Come!" She commands, outstretching one little hand. Meredith looks somewhere between amused and anxious.

"Um…"

"He's very friendly," Addison assures her, perhaps thinking she was nervous around dogs.

"Okay, then." With one last glance at Derek, Meredith drops to her knees in the sand and Oliver, seeing an unlicked face, promptly makes up for his lack of attention.

Derek finds himself standing next to Mark.

"How, uh, how was your trip?" Derek asks.

"It was okay." Mark pauses. "I mean, Viv's flown before, but this was her first time cross-country."

"Ah." Derek nods. "How'd that go?"

"She was not really a fan. But I feel worse for the other passengers."

They both smile at this.

Oliver is now on his back in the sand, an expression of bliss in his soulful eyes, while six hands massage him.

"Dogs have it pretty good," Mark observes.

…

"See? Not weird," Derek says quietly to Meredith as they stroll down the wet sand closest to the water, shoes dangling. The air smells salty fresh, the ocean sparkling under the darkening sky.

"It was a little weird," she corrects. "I mean, they were perfectly nice. But you can be nice and weird."

"Are they separate axes, or one analysis, or …?"

She swats him with her program. "She's so tall."

"Who, Addison?"

"Yes, Addison." She frowns at him. "Vivian is like two feet tall."

"Oh. Well, I didn't know if you meant relatively … anyway. Yeah, I guess so. You've met her before."

"She seems taller here."

"Being tall isn't so great. Less leg room on planes … short people jogging to keep up with you … plus all the neck aches from leaning down to kiss your girlfriend…"

Meredith laughs a little at that. "Oh, are you complaining about how much work it is to kiss me?"

"Definitely not." He sweeps her into his arms before she can protest, lifting her to eye level and kissing her deeply. "See, I have my tricks."

"You certainly do," she says, a little breathlessly, once he's set her on her feet.

…

"So." Derek watches Meredith rearrange some of the salad on her plate, the rim already decorated with shrimp tails. "I wouldn't call this the typical Shepherd wedding."

"No?"

"No." He shakes his head. "My sisters were insane as brides. Even Liz. But Clara is easygoing." Clara had laughed at the drizzling rain, claiming it was good for the curl in her hair, and her new husband did too. They seem well matched. "I have no idea where she gets that from."

"She's the oldest of all fourteen, right?"

Derek nods. Clara was always calm, gentle with the numerous younger cousins and siblings who swarmed her. Whether it was inborn or the circumstances of her birth order, she handled it beautifully. Derek doesn't know much about Brett but they seem well suited, an easy affection in their words and gestures. He clearly knows the rest of her generation well, chatting with siblings and cousins alike, and friendly with all the aunts.

"She's young, to get married," Meredith says.

"She said when you know, you know." Derek smiles at this. "I think she's young, too. But she's going to grad school in London, and I guess she felt ready. Liz got married young, too." He thinks for a moment of the hundreds of memories of Clara leading throngs of little Shepherds through his mother's living room, ogling the tower of presents under the Christmas tree, or shouting with glee on the sloping lawns of the Connecticut backyard, throwing a Frisbee or a football or anything they could scrape up.

"Liz has five kids." Meredith looks impressed. "And she's a doctor, and …"

"… and an overachiever," Derek says.

"Five," Meredith repeats. " _Five._ "

Derek laughs a little. "Don't worry, I have no desire to be as prolific as my sisters."

Meredith looks up at him from under her lashes. "Mm-hm."

"One. One's nice. Or two. Mark and Addison seem to have their hands full with one," he says, smiling.

"She's cute," Meredith offers.

"She is." Derek nods. "Does that mean you're revising your previous position that kids are to be feared at all costs?"

"I do not _fear_ kids." She laughs. "Not even toddlers who are better dressed than I am."

"Hey, didn't she say she liked your dress?"

"Toddlers with better manners, too."

He laughs now and kisses her. "She is cute. But I was distracted … by how cute you looked _with_ her."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, and she seemed to like you."

"Don't get any ideas," she warns him, resting both hands on the lapels of his lightweight suit.

"Mm, and why not? It's a wedding, weddings put all sorts of ideas in people's heads."

"The wedding kind of idea is okay. The baby kind of idea is … still out for a vote."

"Who votes on it?"

"Well, you and me, for a start," she says, "but also my uterus."

"Wait … you get two votes?"

"No, Derek, _I_ get one vote. My _uterus_ gets it own vote."

"Absentee ballot," he suggests, and she laughs.

"I like seeing you with your nieces and nephews," she admits, almost shyly.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, Uncle Derek." She smiles. "You must miss them."

"I do." He nods. "But my life is in Seattle now. And they're on the east coast. Things change."

"Things change," she agrees.

"I wouldn't exchange the change for anything, you know," he says, glancing at her. She doesn't respond, but he sees a pink flush creeping along the lacy neckline of her dress.

She's extra beautiful in this light.

…

There are no assigned tables, just … wandering, picking along the sand or settling under the tent where the artificially hardened floor makes it easier for elderly guests to walk. Derek finds himself catching up later with Mark and Addison, a sleeping Vivian on her father's shoulder, while Meredith finds her way indoors to the cabana powder room down the beach.

"I'm glad we came," Mark says, sounding just south of confident. "Addison was worried, but …"

"It's fine." Derek nods, hoping this part of the conversation will be short. "You see my sisters … or Addison does."

"Nancy mostly." Mark shrugs, his gaze in the distance on the semicircle of little wrought-iron chairs. Derek can see his mother seated on cushion, surrounded by relatives.

"Meredith seems nice," Mark says. "She seems great," he adds, maybe thinking he didn't sound enthusiastic enough.

"She is nice. And great." Derek gives him a small, slightly uncomfortable smile.

"Look, Derek," Mark says abruptly, "I just wanted to say that I-"

"It's okay." Derek puts up a hand. "I get it, it's fine. Really."

He doesn't want to hear apologies right now, not while Mark is holding the product of his affair with Derek's wife. It feels so long ago already, and it _was_ so long ago, but he recognizes it's fresher for Mark.

"Okay." Mark exhales. "Thanks."

"So you're a dad, huh." Derek gestures at Mark's sleeping daughter.

"Yeah." Mark chuckles a little. "It's nothing like how I thought it would be."

"How is it?"

"Nice," Mark says. "Nice … and great."

He breaks into and smile and Derek feels a little more comfortable now.

…

"Hey," Meredith catches up to him, tripping slightly in the low light. The sun has set, it's dark grey dusk now with only romantic strings of fairy lights illuminating the tent. Derek sees that someone has pushed out a sort of Victorian tea cart supporting a massive tiered wedding cake, all frilly white layers and explosions of pastel flowers.

"Hey." He wraps an arm around Meredith when she gets to his side. Relatives start gathering, seeing the cake.

"Looks good," Addison observes, coming up on his right side. Mark is behind her, a sleeping Vivian in his arms.

"She's out, huh?" Derek gestures at their daughter.

"Oh, yeah. The twins chased her all over the beach and she pretty much passed out. I don't think anything could wake her at this point."

Derek smiles at this.

Nancy shoulders her way through the crowd, dragging Steve, and Clara and Brett find their way to the front too. Derek is surrounded by his older sisters and their families.

Clara and Brett exchange a glance and then Clara takes her new husband's hand and steps onto a boxy driftwood-looking structure that gives her about a foot of extra height.

"Hi," she calls out, "so, um, we just wanted to thank you all so much for coming … some of you from really far away … especially you, Emily, you win the distance award."

"Emily's doing a Fulbright in Cairo," Liz whispers by way of explanation.

"It's been so great, exactly what we wanted – yeah, that's right, we wanted the rain."

The crowd laughs and she pauses, smiling.

"Actually, it rained when my grandmother and grandfather got married, _and_ when my parents did, so actually … I'm flattered." She pauses for more laughter. "But I'm sorry for those of you who don't think rain is as lucky as I do. Anyway, the point is … we're just so grateful to all of you, to our parents ... Brett and I are each lucky enough to still have a grandmother, so Grammy and my brand-new Grand _ma_ , we love you."

Clara waves into the crowd and Derek turns to see the two older women seated together on cane chairs; each one blows a kiss.

"And we just want to say something about the people who couldn't be here tonight," she says softly, glancing at Brett, whose hand she's still holding. She gestures to him and he joins her on the box, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

"It's impossible to have all of your family in one place-"

"- yeah, if you don't freakin' invite them, that can happen."

The crowd turns at the loud, unsteady voice and Derek is shocked to see a wild-eyed young woman staggering toward them across the boardwalk. She's wearing tight leather pants and a low cut shirt and can barely seem to walk in her shoes.

A murmur runs through the relatives, loudest where Derek is standing.

"What the _hell_ is she doing here?" Nancy murmurs to Liz.

Clara, for her part, takes it in stride. "Um … hi, so … come and have some cake," she says weakly, exchanging a confused glance with her mother. "Do you want to-"

"You do realize I'm still _alive_ , 'lizabeth, right?" The woman has made it to the front of the crowd. Her makeup is smeared and she stinks of alcohol but the pupils in her bright blue eyes speak of something else too. Liz takes a step back. "You c'n hide me away but I still _exist._ "

Meredith looks worried. "Derek, who is that ... do you know her?"

" _That_ is Amy," he whispers back. "And I'm not sure I know her anymore."

"Amy, what are you doing here?" Nancy steps protectively in front of Clara, who's down from the box now.

"It's okay, Aunt Nancy," Clara says.

"No, it's not. She shouldn't have come. How did she even know where we were?"

Nancy turns accusingly toward Carolyn, who is being hustled away by relatives apparently trying to protect her. "Did Mom say something to you?"

"No, she protected your little _secret._ But th'invitation's on the fridge an' I'm not an _idiot_ , okay? You can't just _wash your hands_ of me." She smacks both hands together and laughs eerily at the sound.

"How did you even know where to go?" Nancy challenges.

"Nancy … " Addison says quietly.

"What, Addie, I'm trying to – wait." Nancy turns on Addison, who takes a step back. " _You_ invited her?"

"No, of course not."

"But it was your fridge," Nancy says slowly, "goddamn it, Addison, it was _your_ fridge."

Addison and Mark are exchanging worried glances; Derek is busy trying to keep up with this new information.

"You're seeing her. You _see_ her. She's in your house." Nancy pauses. "Oh my god, Addie, is Amy living with you?"

"Yes," Addison admits quietly, "yes, but-"

"For how long?"

"Six months," Addison whispers. "But Nancy, just listen for a second-"

"But nothing. I _forgave_ you, Addison, I believed you after what you did to my brother and I saw you _last week_ and you never thought to mention this?"

"Amy was –"

"Haven't you done enough to my family? Just stay away from us!"

"Nancy." Liz rests a hand on her shoulder, then turns to Clara and Brett, who look helpless.

"Everything's fine," Liz says soothingly.

"Everything _fine_ ," Amy slurs, "don't you know, all you have to do is say _fine_ and boom everything's _fine, boom_ ," and on the second _boom_ she snatches a champagne glass off the cocktail table and then drops it seconds later onto the decorative floor. It's hard to tell whether it was purposeful, but either way golden liquid splashes onto Clara's dress and the shattered glass, having struck the wrong angle against one of the chairs, scatters around her feet.

"Look what you did now!" Nancy snaps. "What is _wrong_ with you, Amy? Why are you like this?" Nancy is in her face now, grabbing her by her bare arms and shaking her hard.

"Hey!" Steve pulls Nancy off Amy, whose hair looks wild now. Her eyes look wilder.

"Get off me, you psycho," Amy mutters, and then promptly loses her balance, going down hard on her knees, her hand in the –

"Amy! Amy, you're bleeding," Addison, sounding panicked, is crouching in front of her. "Stand up carefully, there you go, there's glass."

"S'okay, Addie," Amy says loudly, "Nancy doesn't know, I would never tell her. I can keep a secret. You know I can keep a secret."

"Mark, Derek," Addison says quietly, "if either of you has a kit…"

"I'm _fine,_ Addie, god, you are such a _worrier_ , you're as lame as my real sisters sometimes." Amy grabs at Addison with her bleeding hand, streaking a red stain along Addison's dress.

"Amy. Sit down," Addison pleads, trying to move her away from the glass.

"That's it. I'm calling the police."

"No, Nancy, please," Addison cuts in.

Derek will think later that this is the moment.

That it's Addison's plea that pushes Nancy over the edge – not that it wasn't with the best of intentions, not that Addison didn't want to help Amy, but after what Nancy saw as a betrayal, Addison aligning herself with Amy was more than she could bear.

"Please, Nancy, she needs help," Addison begs. "Not the police. She needs help. She's bleeding."

"Help? Like living with you, where you're apparently just letting her _use_ -"

"I'm not letting her do anything," Addison pleads, "we just want to help her, that's all."

"She's beyond help." Nancy turns to Amy with disgust. "Just look at her."

Amy sniffles loudly, dragging her injured hand across her face. The blood mixed with smeared makeup has a positively ghoulish effect, it takes everything in him not to shudder.

"Nancy – we'll take her to a place. To a … to rehab. Please. We'll leave right now, but don't call the police."

"Addison," Mark mutters to her, but she pulls away from him and puts her arm around Amy.

"Please, Nancy, it's me you're angry with, don't take it out on Amy."

"I am angry with you but unfortunately you have an invitation so _you_ aren't trespassing, or destroying property." Nancy has her cell phone out, and Addison reaches for it; Nancy pulls her hand out of the way and shoves Addison, who takes a step back, looking shocked.

Derek stands there on the front lines, a protective arm around Meredith, watching the scene unfold as if in slow motion.

" _Addison._ " Mark is tugging her away from Nancy, one-armed because he's still holding Vivian. She's awake now, rubbing her eyes and whimpering at the commotion. Her whimpers turn into wails as she takes in the chaos around her and doesn't receive the attention she's expecting.

"There's already a force at the boardwalk. So it will be quick." Nancy's eyes are narrowed, her voice cold. "Amy, I hope you enjoyed your brief time on the outside before you're locked up where you belong."

"Jesus, Nancy," Mark looks shocked. "There's no need-"

"You have no idea what I need, or what anyone in this family needs," Nancy says sharply. "You're just as bad as she is." She jerks her head toward Addison. "The two of you, sheltering a criminal-"

"She's not a criminal!"

"Oh, that's right, she didn't steal from _you_."

"Shut _up_!" Amy has both hands over her ears. "God, Nancy, you're so fucking loud all the _time,_ " and she staggers away from her sister, directly into the intricately wrought iron cart holding Clara's elaborate cake.

"No!" Nancy yells but it's too late, Amy plummets into the cart, sliding to the ground as the cart takes off, careening toward the guests until someone grabs it and then the cake has splattered everywhere, white icing landing as far as the surprised looking ring-bearer, who makes the most of it by licking his sweetened hand solemnly.

"It's okay," Clara is saying, "Aunt Nancy, just forget it, there are cupcakes and things … it doesn't matter, it's just a cake."

"See, Nancy," Amy slurs, trying and failing to get to her feet. "Why can't you be more like Carly and less like a _bitch._ "

"I'm Clara," she says patiently, "Aunt Amy, I'm really sorry, but I think you should go, before…"

"Lizzie," Amy pleads, turning to her older sister, holding up both her blood and cake streaked hands pleadingly, "Lizzie, tell Nancy to stop being such a bitch, she doesn't listen to me, no one listens to me."

"Amy, just be quiet," Liz says, "you've upset Mom, you're upsetting our guests."

" _I'm_ your sister too. You think you can just forget about me but you can't, you _can't_."

"No," Liz says quietly, "you've made sure of that." She turns to Nancy. "Nance, don't call the police. It's okay, just let us handle it. Addie, Mark, you'll-"

"We'll take her," Addison says quickly.

The sound of sirens cuts across the sand and Derek sees and hears at the same time the skidding of car wheels on the pavement just beyond the boardwalk.

"No!" Amy looks dazedly from one sister to the other. "What the _fuck_ , Nancy?"

"Amy, calm down," Steve says quietly, soothingly; he's standing in front of the twins, who are clutching each other's hands nervously.

"Tell the cops to go away," Amy pouts like she's eight again and Nancy practically snarls.

"Why, are you carrying _drugs_? Did you bring drugs to your niece's wedding, _Amelia_?"

"Don't call me that," Amy whimpers.

Then there's a swarm of blue, of raised voices, of force and clanking silver and Amy's terrified yelps.

"Addie!" Amy shrieks as she's handcuffed, and Addison starts to lunge forward.

"Amy, it's okay, it's okay…"

Mark is holding onto Addison with the hand not cradling their now crying toddler. "You want to get arrested too? Stay back."

Derek and Meredith exchange a glance.

"Amy, please, just cooperate," Addison pleads as Amy struggles; the officer, seeming to lose patience, shoves her onto the cocktail table to finish handcuffing her and Amy and Addison shout at the same time.

"You're hurting her," Addison yells, "she's tiny and you're hurting her, stop it. Can't you see she's bleeding?"

"Simmer down, lady, unless you want to go with her," another officer says to Addison, who seems to be about to say something when Mark takes his hand off her arm and claps it over her mouth instead – which Addison appreciates just about exactly as much as he would have expected.

Mark turns to Derek, a pleading expression on his face, and Derek holds out his arms for his sobbing child. "Thanks," he mutters, and while Vivian kicks Derek viciously with her tiny party shoes, Mark uses both his arms to muscle Addison back in line.

"Stop it," he says loudly enough for Derek to hear, but not the officers. "I'm not bailing you out of jail because you pissed off some 'roided-up cop on a power trip. Things are bad enough."

Mark clearly needs both his hands to deal with Addison so Derek shifts Vivian into a more comfortable position now that he's pretty sure she's bruised his kidneys. He tries awkwardly to comfort her, saying the sorts of things one does to a crying toddler, like _shh_ and _it's okay_ except that crying seems like a perfectly normal reaction to this chaos, so _shh_ is rather hypocritical, and it would be an outright lie to suggest that _it's_ actually _okay._ But he does his best. Meredith has one arm on his back supportively, the other trying to help him with Vivian.

"Addie, help me!" Amy is calling, crying now, and Derek can see that Addison, in addition to looking devastated, seems close to tears too.

"Please, Amy, just go with them and stop fighting," she cries.

At that moment gold and green fireworks burst into the air over the water from an unseen jetty, and the gaggle of Shepherds finally has somewhere else to look.

"I guess someone should have told them to hold off on those," Clara murmurs to her new husband, who has a hunk of ganache on his collar. He hugs her and it seems like both of them are disappearing from the chaos.

The fireworks are loud, and even with the officers and the yelling, and the smashed cake, and Amy's ranting, they're shocking enough to divert attention, with all the _oohs_ and _ahs_ that go with it. Liz urges the group toward the water, collaring Carly to help her get the guests in line, and slowly most of the gathered onlookers start moving away.

Amy stares at the lit-up sky with bleary eyes as the officers tow her through the sand.

"Happy new year!" Amy yells. "Auld lang … something, let go of me, you fucking pigs, you pervs-" her voice trails off as she's shoved into the cruiser whose lights are already blinking.

They've barely turned over the engine when Nancy rounds on Addison, who's leaning her head on Mark's shoulder, clearly exhausted. "Get out," she snaps.

"What?" Addison looks around. "Nancy, I'm sorry-"

"Get the hell away from my family."

" _Hey._ " Mark puts out a hand between them. "Take it easy, Nancy. We'll leave, you don't need to – "

"Permanently," Nancy hisses. "You'll leave _permanently._ "

Addison is reaching for Vivian now; Derek places the child in her arms, Addison whispers her thanks. Vivian stops crying when she's back with her mother, just sniffling hitching breaths.

"Addison," Nancy is glaring at her. "Do you hear me? You've done enough to hurt this family. Get out of our lives. And this time, stay out."

Addison's face is a closed mask. Derek knows that look. He's not sure if Nancy knows that insults don't break her. Mark, whose hands are closed around Addison's shoulders, seems to know.

Steve looks apologetic. "Listen, guys, it's been a tough night. Let's all just calm down, and-"

"You stay out of this," Nancy snaps at him. "You don't know her like I do."

And then Nancy and Steve are arguing, and Mark is muttering apologies to Derek and a quick _nice to meet you take care_ jumble to Meredith and then leading Addison, Vivian in her arms, away across the sand.

"I told Liz not to invite her," Nancy announces to no one in particular. "I _told_ her."

"Shut up, Nancy," Liz says tiredly, her arms around her two youngest, who are wearing matching pale lilac bridesmaid dresses – spattered with cake icing – and circlets of daisies in their dark hair. Chloe is sniffling; Caitlin just looks dazed.

Derek looks down at his tie, which is wet with Vivian's tears and possibly other things; there's a trail of fruit filling streaking one of his cuffs, settling in the crevices of the cuff links that used to be his father's, the ones he wore in case his mother noticed (she did, and she smiled), right before she…

"Derek … you okay?"

Meredith, who has pink frosting on one cheek and a scratch on her wrist where a struggling Vivian left her mark, squeezes his hand.

"I'm okay." He wraps an arm around her and she leans against him. "Hey, Mer … remember when I said things were never boring with the Shepherds?"

"Yeah. I thought you meant you played flag football or something," she admits, and he can hear in her familiar voice that she's smiling.

"No, those were the Kennedys. The Shepherds' sports are a little rougher and our dysfunction is a little closer to the surface," he says grimly. "Meredith … I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry about." She stands on her tiptoes to kiss him. She tastes like the cake the waiters never had a chance to serve.

She leans back into him and he wraps an arm around her narrow waist, enjoying the feeling of her warm body against his. Quietly, they watch the rest of the fireworks over the water, their silence saying everything else that needs to be said.

As a last gold streak fizzles out in the darkened sky, Derek fingers the ring in his pocket, the one his mother slipped to him earlier. He was going to wait until they were back in Seattle to ask the question, but now he thinks the vast white bed in their airy oceanside room is the right place. That later tonight is the right night. He's never been more certain that Meredith is the right woman.

 _When you know, you know_.

* * *

... **and that was the wedding.** Next time we're back in real time for Amy and Nancy to have it out. Yikes. Please review and let me know what you think - it keeps me on those frequent updates!

PS the title for this chapter, Little Miss S, is an Edie Brickell song I highly recommend. It's very hashtag-Amy.  
PPS for those of you who read the chapter before I fixed the error and caught my Meredith/Addison mixup - honestly, with so many MerDer and Addek chapters going up simultaneously, I'm amazed it was the first time that happened (I think). Sorry!


	11. poison in the well

**A/N: Thank you** for your patience in waiting for this update and all your great comments and thoughts. I appreciate every one of you! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please see the notes after the chapter for more - and did I mention thank you?

* * *

 _poison in the well  
..._

* * *

"Shh," Zola says to her mother, pointing at the flickering screen across the room with one hand and using the other to touch her lips in the universal gesture for _stop talking already_.

"Usually we _shh_ at the movies but remember, this is a special movie," Meredith explains. "It's just for kids and their grownups, and you can make noise if you want."

Zola's brow furrows as she takes in her mother's words and then scans the rest of the theater.

With the temperature creeping past the low nineties by noon and mother and daughter both wilting from the heat when they stopped back at the apartment after lunch, the doorman's suggestion was remarkable helpful. The family movie theatre, only a few blocks from the apartment, is in a renovated older theater and the seats still remaining in the revamped children's room are scratchy wool. It retains the comforting scent of old buttery popcorn and waxy chocolate but the middle of the floor is padded and contains a variety of soft sitting implements and even toys. Here, children and their caregivers can ostensibly watch a special showing of an older family-friendly movie – but most importantly for today, they can relax in blissfully cool air conditioning.

As in really, _really_ good air conditioning. Like … could probably do surgery in here air conditioned.

Zola seems pleased with the change of scenery. She shows occasional interest in the screen – as far as Meredith can tell, it's a cartoon about a bear who's trying to befriend a zebra, which seems strange if harmlessly pleasant. Her daughter is more interested in the other children.

"Day care," she says happily to her mother when she sees a half dozen other children wandering from toy to toy and Meredith overhears a chuckle from a few feet away. She turns self-consciously to see a woman who looks to be around her age kneeling on the floor in a pantsuit, her gaze fixed on a small blond boy stacking oversized plastic legos.

"Sorry," the woman says quickly. "It's just that's exactly what Peyton said when I brought him here for the first time. Which was yesterday. I guess it reminds him of the day care at my office. I'm sorry," she says again. "I, uh, I tend to ramble when I'm nervous. And I'm nervous."

Meredith nods slowly. "I'm Meredith," she says, "and that's Zola."

"Hi, Meredith. Thanks for not judging me. Are you a shrink?"

"No."

"Okay, good. Oh my god, you must think I'm absolutely nuts. I'm not. Yet. I mean, my father's having surgery a few blocks away at MSC and the staff in the family waiting room suggested this place so we could get out of the hospital but stay nearby, so…"

Now that makes sense. "We're in a similar situation," Meredith says gently.

" _Oh._ Then you do understand. Hey, Peyton, be nice…" The woman moves toward her son, who is attempting to wrestle a red stuffed kangaroo from Zola.

"Zo, why don't you share the-"

Before she can get any further, Zola has pulled the kangaroo away from Peyton and whacked him in the stomach with it.

"Zola," Meredith intercedes, trying hard not to laugh – it's not like the floppy toy will hurt the little boy, and she can't help but privately enjoy seeing her daughter standing up for herself. "We don't hit," she says firmly, taking custody of the kangaroo.

She expects noisy protest but Zola apparently decides she's made her point and is quiet, solemnly looking around her.

"I'm so sorry," Meredith offers, turning to Peyton's mother.

"Hey, it's a dog eat dog world. Or … toddler eat toddler. I'm Kristina, by the way. With a K. I don't know why my parents did that unless they hate me because I've spent my whole life saying _Kristina with a K_ and I really shouldn't insult my father right now while he's having surgery." She covers her mouth again. "Believe it or not, in the real world, I am not this crazy."

"I believe it."

"Hospitals make people crazy. I stay away from them at all costs. So, you're not a shrink, what do you do?" She asks abruptly, still speaking a mile a minute. Meredith starts to understand why Derek said the pace of New York City wasn't for him anymore.

"I'm a doctor," she says.

"Oh! Sorry about what I said about hospitals."

"Don't be. Hospitals are an … acquired taste."

"Yeah. Oh, hey, take a look at that…"

Meredith follows Kristina's gaze to see Zola and Peyton sitting side by side on the soft mat printed with a highway, peacefully _vroom_ ing cars with the tact of diplomats.

Quickly, she glances at her phone. Derek hasn't updated her since he let her know his mother had come out of surgery and the procedure was a success. He said he'd text when she was back in her room. She wants to support him and she knows it can't be easy to be alone with all his sisters, but a small part of her can't help appreciating this lovely and seemingly unearned time alone with Zola. They took family health leave together and, excused from the normally intense demands of her job, she's able to enjoy moments of the day she'd normally miss.

Like her daughter clocking a grabby boy in the stomach.

Okay, that wasn't quite fair. Having settled down, Peyton has revealed himself to be a decent character. His honking and car crash noises are pretty good, and he's deferred to Zola on traffic light placement. She might have been wrong about him.

Zola approaches her then with a small vehicle in each fist. "Where's Daddy?"

"Daddy's at the hospital with Grammy," Meredith explains patiently, for at least the sixth time today, smiling at her daughter. "You're going to see him really soon."

"Grammy too?"

"Grammy too, but she'll need to rest a little bit before she's back up to – Grammy too," Meredith says, smiling at her daughter. It's good, if expected, news that Derek's mother came through the procedure well, and even if there are some small challenges with his sisters Derek is getting some quality time with his family.

And now that his mother has come out of surgery, they must all be so relieved. Meredith smiles to herself, thinking it will be nice for Derek to have some peace and calm.

…

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't _literally_ throw you out of here." Amy's normally pale face is flushed; she's breathing hard, wisps of hair fallen from her ponytail.

"You're high right now, aren't you," Nancy accuses, her dark eyes glittering.

"Oh, for god's sake, Nancy, I've been clean for _years._ "

"Amy." Derek steps between them – again. He's had to circle them twice as the sisters stand off by the full-length lobby windows. They've already attracted a few stares, and Derek is embarrassed to think what staff and patients must think. "Nancy, come on. Just drop it for now."

Both of them ignore their brother.

"You're still holding the wedding over my head." Amy paces with frustration. "Damn it, Nancy, Clara's forgiven me. Liz has forgiven me. I paid back every cent for the cake and the property and I paid my _fine_ after my sister had me thrown in jail."

"Of course, it's all about how hard things have been for _you_ , Amy. Everything's about you. Never mind what you've done to this family." Nancy's voice shakes.

"I'm _sorry,_ Nancy, god, I've apologized over and over for what I did when I was using. I've been through hell for it-"

"No, you don't get it," Nancy interrupts. "Amy, you had to go through hell for mistakes _you_ made. And the rest of us? We had to go through hell … also for mistakes _you_ made. For your choices."

"Sending me to prison wasn't my choice!"

"But it was _your_ actions that sent you there."

"I needed help." Now Amy's voice shakes, dropping until it's barely audible. "I needed help and you called the police on me instead."

"I needed help too!" Nancy's volume rises in turn and Derek attempts to shush both of them again. "You ruined a day we all worked hard for, you upset Mom, you-"

"I _know_ what I did. I've made amends, I've-"

"Oh, don't go all twelve steps on me." Nancy waves an impatient hand. "What are you even doing in the city? You're living with Addison again? Because that worked out so well the last time."

"Derek …" Amy turns on him. "You told her?"

"I told her I saw you at their house, yes," he says carefully, but Amy's back to glaring at Nancy now, hardly listening to him.

"You have a lot of nerve talking to me about Addie after how you treated her at the wedding, Nancy."

"That's none of your business."

"Addie _is_ my business. She was more of a sister to me than you ever were!"

"Okay, Amy, that's enough. Nancy, that's _enough_." Derek intercedes, holding out a hand to each before Nancy's indrawn breath can turn into yelling. "We're in public, we're in a _hospital_ , you can sort this out later. And not in front of Mom," he adds.

Nancy turns on him. "Don't act like you're looking out for Mom when you wrote this family off years ago."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You haven't seen Mom in years, Derek. Haven't been home in more years than that. Now you suddenly deign to show up and you want to tell us what to do?"

He draws a calming breath, reminding himself of the stress Nancy has been under dealing with his mother's illness. "Okay, Nancy, now is not the time to talk about this. We'll talk about this later."

"How do you think she felt when she found out you had a daughter _after_ -"

"Stop," he says sharply. "We're not doing this now."

"But Nancy knows what's best for everyone," Amy says sweetly. "Derek, you're lucky you're getting her advice."

"Shut up," Nancy says coldly to Amy. "I'm tired of hearing your voice. Go crawl back under-"

"Okay, that's enough." Derek has each of them by one arm now and hustles all three of them together through the sliding glass doors and out onto the steamy sidewalk. At least here they won't be disturbing anxious families or healing patients.

Well … they'll only be disturbing them on the way in or out.

"You're lucky security didn't come after both of you," he scolds when they're spread out on the sidewalk, clouds of steam curling around the curb, trying to breathe in the thickly humid air.

"Well, Amy has plenty of interest negotiating her way out of … tight situations." Nancy's tone is biting.

Amy shakes her head. "Are we joking about how you got me arrested? It's funny to you?"

Nancy folds her arms and doesn't speak.

"You know I left lockup with a broken wrist."

"If you behaved in there anything like you did before they locked you up, I'm not surprised."

Amy's eyes narrow and she takes several fast steps toward Nancy before Derek moves in between them. "Stop," he says wearily. "Please. You two have … issues to discuss. Do you really need to do it right now?"

" _Yes_ ," they snap at him in unison.

Amy turns back to Nancy, her voice quieter now. "I could have destroyed my career. A broken wrist and then it took me six months to get my license back. I had to petition the board."

"And you could have destroyed mine." Nancy pauses. "I had to go before the board too, after you stole my prescription pad … or did you already forget that, from the last time?"

"I didn't do it on purpose." Amy flings her arms out, frustrated. "I'm _sorry_ , Nancy, I was sick!"

"Whose fault was that? Mine?"

"No, it was mine. Mine and … addiction's."

Nancy makes a noise somewhere between disbelief and disgust.

"Nancy," she says softly, "look, if this is really about –"

"Don't you _dare_ bring him up!"

Amy exhales heavily. "Fine. Look, everyone else forgave me. Why can't you?"

"Maybe everyone else is pretending. Maybe I'm the only honest one."

"Nancy," Derek intercedes.

Amy's eyes widen; she ignores her brother and focuses on her sister. "You know what, Nancy? Maybe pretending _not_ to be a heinous bitch isn't the worst thing in the world!"

"Uh … excuse me?"

All three siblings turn at the unfamiliar voice to see a young woman in MSC scrubs standing on the sidewalk in front of them holding a clipboard. "Are you Carolyn Shepherd's family?"

"Yes," Nancy says quickly, the others on her heels. She and Amy are both breathing heavily, trying to gather themselves, and Derek feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment to be found … _brawling_ , for lack of a better term, when they should have with at their mother's side.

"Your mother is back in her room," the hospital staffer continues, "and she's doing very well." She smiles briefly – it doesn't reach her eyes. "When the three of you have finished … whatever this is, I'm sure your mother would be very happy to see you."

Chastened, the three siblings wait until they can be sure they won't be trapped in the elevator with the understandably judgmental stranger and then head for their mother's room.

…

"Wait," Derek says when the door opens, pressing a hand against the metal. "Needless to say … you can't bring this in there."

"Really?" Nancy snaps.

"Enough." He frowns at his older sister. "You don't have the high horse, Nancy. The two of you are oil and water, so keep your distance and play nice in front of Mom."

"Fine," Amy says. "But Nancy's the one who says she's too _honest_ to pretend like the rest of us in civilized society."

"Shut up, Amy," he says tiredly and at Nancy's smirk he adds, "and you too, Nancy. If it's this annoying for me I can't imagine what our mother who _just came out of surgery_ would say."

They walk into the room in age order.

"Mom," Nancy says warmly, all traces of the cold anger she directed at Amy gone. "It's so good to see you up and around!"

"Well, not quite up and around, dear." Carolyn says, gesturing with one hand toward the hospital room.

Derek walks slowly toward the bed. His mother had nothing more than a winter flu his entire life, always both hardy and hearty. Seeing her propped up in bed with little color in her cheeks, her grey hair fuzzy around her tired face, she suddenly looks every year of her age.

But then she smiles, and she looks much more like herself. Looking from one child to the next, she positively beams, in fact. "All my babies in one room, together. It's been so long. I'd say it's worth having surgery for this sight."

There are ripples of _oh, Mom,_ from some of his sisters, and Derek scans them quickly. Liz is sitting by his mother's side attentively. Kathleen has positioned herself between Nancy, who is looking determinedly away from her youngest sister, and Amy, whose hands are propped on her hips even as she smiles at her mother.

And then there's Derek. He's been living away from the east coast for more than seven years – yet in this room, he's still back to feeling like he should be running circles around the women in his life.

"How are all my grandbabies?" Carolyn looks from one sibling to the next.

"They all want to see you," Liz replies, and the others nod in agreement.

"No dice," she says firmly even though she's smiling. "I'll be out of here soon. I will, wont I dear?" She turns to the nurse who's checking her monitors.

"You'd have to ask the doctor, but if you keep on doing this well, I'd say so." The nurse smiles at her. "Dr. McGovern will be back later."

"Isn't she going to-" Derek stops talking at Liz's glare.

"Dr. McGovern was here earlier," Kathleen says pointedly.

Moving closer to Derek, she whispers, "we looked for you, but you were … mediating."

"Is that what I was doing?" He whispers back.

Pull them aside, with oncologist, they got everything, she should make full recovery, mild round of medication,

 **..**

"She's in a room and she's doing great."

"That's just the greeting I was hoping for." He can hear Meredith smiling down the line.

"I thought you'd call earlier," she admits. "Is everything okay? Was she delayed in recovery?"

"Not exactly." He grimaces. "I was … delayed with my sisters."

Meredith takes this in stride, one of the many qualities he's always admired in her, and apparently decides not to push it. "Have things calmed down?"

"To a degree." He pauses. "So that was my afternoon. How was yours?'

"Well, we found a children's movie theatre that's kind of like toy store meets _Lord of the Flies_ and your daughter whacked a little boy with a kangaroo."

"If I'm interpreting that correctly, then I approve."

"Me too, but we're not supposed to say that in front of her."

"Lie to our child. Got it."

Meredith laughs. "Oh, and I met the anti-Cristina. I mean, her name actually _is_ Kristina, but it's spelled with a K, and that probably tells you all you need to know."

"Most of it, anyway." He can't help sighing a little. "I miss you."

"We both miss you."

"Mom wants me to leave and have dinner with you. Liz is spending the night in the hospital with her, but I can go back afterwards."

"Are you sure?"

"Actually, I think she's regretting her no-children policy and she thinks at least one of us should get to hang out with Zola."

"I can understand that."

…

He meets them halfway down the block, a cheerful greeting on his lips that fades away when he sees Meredith and Zola hand in hand and his own exhaustion registers. All he can do, and what he needs, is to pull his wife close and bury his face in her hair.

"We're happy to see you too," she says softly when he pulls back, freeing a hand to touch his face.

"Where's your new friend Kristina?" He teases, feeling much better just from proximity, the feel of her, knowing she's here now.

"Very funny. It was hard enough to detach from her. She wants to meet up tomorrow."

"What did you say?"

"I said yes." Meredith rolls her eyes. "But only because Zola apparently loves her kid now that they have a peace agreement."

"Yeah?" Derek turns his attention to Zola, lifting her into his arms and kissing her cheek.

"Scratchy!" She pushes at his face, laughing.

"Sorry, sweetie." He holds her at eye level. "Did you make a new friend today?"

"My friend is Peyton." She fiddles with the collar of her father's shirt. "He's little."

"He's maybe a millimeter shorter than she is," Meredith murmurs.

Derek laughs. "You hungry, ZoZo? We're going to have some dinner."

"Peyton too?"

"You really did make a new friend. No, you're going to have dinner with your _old_ friend, Daddy."

Zola beams. "Mommy too," she says firmly.

"Yes, Mommy too." He glances at Meredith, who looks fine – well, more than fine – but he knows it's been a long day.

"Mer – you want a break? I can take her out and you can shower, have the place to yourself. You've had her alone all day."

"I don't want a break. I want to be together." She smiles at him. "But I won't argue if you want to carry Zola."

"Are you getting too heavy for Mommy?" He tips his daughter backwards to make her laugh and she squeals with delight; when she's right-side up again, he kisses her and then reaches his free hand to rest on Meredith's belly. She smiles down at him and rests her palm over his.

Fifteen weeks.

Which is just what Mark said about Addison's pregnancy. Keeping secrets from Meredith feels wrong, but he reaffirms his decision not to tell her about his meeting with Mark, about what he's learned. It's too devastating while she's carrying their child and with his mother and sisters demanding too much of their time.

…

Dinner with his wife and child is the bright spot in a difficult day. But it's over too quickly for his liking; all too soon they're finished and he's reminded that he told his sisters he would stop in again to check on his mother before he retired to their apartment for the evening. He hesitates, a sleepy Zola in his arms.

"I was going to pop in and say goodnight to my mother. But I don't need to, if you-"

"Definitely go say good night to her," Meredith says firmly. "She'll like that."

"All right." He nods. "But I'm dropping the two of you off first. And then I'll go see my mother – I guess I do have some ground to make up for with her," he adds.

"You think so?" She's looking at him with her head slightly tilted.

"Nancy seems to think so."

"You said yourself that Nancy thinks a lot of things."

"I did move across the country," he says.

"People move, Derek," she responds gently. "I mean … it's kind of unusual that all your sisters raised their families so close to your mother, isn't it?"

"I don't know." He considers this. "I guess it seemed … expected. And I don't think she understands why Seattle."

Meredith nods.

"In fairness, there was no _why Seattle_ until you … and now you're the _why Seattle._ "

"Me and the ferryboats, right?"

"You and the ferryboats. Two of my three – no, _four_ favorite things." He rests a hand on her belly affectionately.

"Just don't tell us what the order is," she grins at him and he leans in for a quick kiss.

…

Liz is standing outside his mother's door when he approaches. "She's sleeping."

"Oh." He studies his sister's face for a moment. Liz looks tired, or maybe it's that she's older than he remembers. He's noticed since facing all of them on this trip that they stopped aging somewhere around the turn of the millennium. That's probably the period of their joint adulthoods when he saw them the most; the years between then and his departure from Manhattan took on an increasingly tight schedule and he worked on building his practice. Liz looks older than he remembers, but not _different_ , not exactly, her brown eyes warm, the angular face in his memories softer now, making her look a bit more like their mother. "How's she doing?"

"She's doing well." Liz leans back against the wall outside their mother's room. "After all her nonsense … I'm sorry, Derek, but it _was_ nonsense, the surgery went beautifully and she has nothing but praise for Dr. McGovern."

"That's good."

"Yeah, it is." She fixes her gaze on Derek. "Did you ever figure out what was going on with Addison?"

"Not exactly."

"But Amy's living with her."

He nods. "Did you talk to Amy?"

"No one can talk to Amy." Liz sighs. "I'm not saying I agree with Nancy," she says quickly, "and I didn't then either, as I hope you remember."

"I do remember, Liz."

"You didn't say anything. Then, I mean."

"I know." He looks over Liz's shoulder; there's a generic print of the Manhattan skyline at night hanging on the wall – post 9/11, consistent with his impression of the hospital's conscientious decision-making. He studies the orange glints of light in the dark background. He's thought about his passive position at the wedding, while his sister fought and his ex-wife and ex-best friend tried to defend Amy.

Liz glances at him. "That's the only other time Meredith's met the family, huh."

Derek nods.

"She must think we're a bunch of animals."

"Well, not you," he tries lighten the mood with his tone. "Maybe Nancy and Amy."

She presses her lips together the way she always has when she's trying not to laugh, since she was a teenager and Derek and Mark pulled some prank or other she had to pretend to be too mature to find it amusing.

"She's nice." Liz toys with the pendant on her necklace. "Meredith, I mean."

"Yeah. She's nice."

"I didn't get a chance to talk to her much, you know, the … first time. I was busy with Clara, and then…"

And then they were all busy with Amy. It all happened so quickly, his primary concern to protect his girlfriend from the scene unfolding feet away from them.

 _Girlfriend._ It seems like such a casual, even silly, term. It never seemed to suit their relationship. She was more than that. Different from that, from the beginning. Before they left California, he had a new term for her: _fiancée._

"Well, we're here now," he says lightly.

Liz looks pensive. "You're here now," she repeats, and gives him a small smile.

His blackberry buzzes before he can say anything else. He's surprised to see the sender of his newest email is Mark.

He's more surprised when he reads what Mark has to say.

The entire brief communication shows up in the subject line. It's just five words – but it's not news to him that five words can change the game.

 _She wants to see you._

* * *

 _TBC (of course). I loved reading what all of you thought about the flashback. Man, addiction sucks. Amy and Nancy were both suffering and maybe still are? I think they're quite a bit alike in certain ways, except they cope in different ways. And yes - Derek proposed to Meredith after the Wedding from Hell. Do you guys want to see the proposal? Are there other flashbacks you're envisioning or would be into? Please let me know if so! Oh yeah, and review, because even though I'm shameless, it keeps me speedy and creative. **Thank you! You are all seriously the best.**_

 _ **To those of you who've been reading Trailblazing -** I screwed up some timeline elements in the story and I'm super annoyed with myself about it, but I'm fixing it and will be updating that story very soon, I promise! Please keep reading and following, I'm excited about what's coming next. _


	12. different names for the same thing

**A/N: Thank you** first to those regular reviewers who are just hitting it every chapter. You rock and you keep me on my toes and I appreciate it. I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

* * *

 _different names for the same thing_  
...

* * *

Meredith is having one of those evenings where motherhood is so lovely – and so _easy_ – that the idea of having two small children in several months seems like the most natural thing in the world. Hell, maybe she'll spring for twins next.

Zola, who is exhausted from a combination of heat, jet-lag, and a purposefully shortened nap today, is agreeable and mild-tempered without losing any of her natural silliness. She still delights in her bath, splashing sleepily and murmuring instructions to the purple duck Meredith brought from Seattle. When Meredith holds her daughter's warm little body wrapped in a fluffy towel and Zola cuddles close on her lap, she feels such a rush of love that it's almost painful.

She giggles when Meredith dresses her in her pajamas, eyes sparkling with anticipatory amusement. Meredith slides the pajama top over her head halfway, then feigns confusion.

"Where's Zola?"

They've been doing the same routine for almost as long as Zola has been theirs, and a part of Meredith will mourn when Zola is too old to find this tradition hilarious.

"Where did she go?" Meredith's tone is puzzled.

Hysterical laughter emanates from inside the little pink and white polka dot pajama top. So at least that day hasn't come yet.

"Zo? Where are you?"

More laughter.

Finally Meredith pops the shirt down over her head. "There you are! I missed you!"

Zola hugs her hard in response and they laugh together. Meredith figures she's one slow-motion hair twirl away from actually becoming a woman in a yogurt commercial.

"Daddy's working," Zola suggests, once she's perched on the bathroom counter so Meredith can brush her little teeth.

"Daddy's saying goodnight to Grammy right now," Meredith corrects gently. "And then he's going to come home. Go like this," she directs her daughter, baring her teeth.

Zola's little brow knits. "Tucking Grammy in?"

Meredith smiles. "Yes … he's tucking Grammy in."

She sets Zola up in the big bed – they can always move her later – and she doesn't protest. She looks so tiny on the vast mattress, and Meredith is overwhelmed with love looking down into her sweet face. "I love you," she tells her daughter quietly. "Like … an absurd amount. You get that, right?"

Zola's eyes are already drifting shut, but she murmurs _love you_ in return and Meredith realizes they've gone past yogurt commercial and into life insurance commercial territory.

Meredith has a stack of her daughter's favorite books on the nightstand and is prepared to read to her, but Zola turns with a tired sigh and falls asleep cuddled next to her mother, one hand tangled in her long hair.

"You're making it way too easy to love being a mom, Zozo," Meredith whispers. "Where's the challenge in that?"

She's rubbing Zola's little back, skin warm through her pajama top, even though her daughter's already asleep. She finds her own eyes growing heavy and reaches for her blackberry to let Derek know he should probably expect to find _two_ sleeping girls when he returns.

…

Derek looks up to see Liz staring at him.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

Liz shakes her head. "I said, what's so fascinating on your phone? Is everything okay?"

"Yes," he says quickly. "Everything's fine."

 _She wants to see you._

He responds quickly to Mark, letting him know he's still at the hospital. There's been so much mystery shrouding her. If nothing else, he'd like to thank her for giving his mother a pep talk before her surgery. Even with a limited understand of Addison's condition, he's aware there was self-sacrifice involved in that pre-operative meeting and he appreciates it.

When Mark asks him to meet in the cafeteria, Derek pauses. He was planning to leave right after he said good-night to his mother, but she's still sleeping. So he could conceivably meet Mark, see Addison, and then say good-night to his mother, all before heading back to their rented apartment, without deviating too much from his planned schedule.

It doesn't sit right with him, though, not telling Meredith what he's going to do.

But telling her doesn't feel right either.

What would he say? _Hey, Meredith, I'm just going to pop in and say hello to a woman who's exactly as pregnant as you are, except she and the baby are both in mortal danger. Sweet dreams!_ He shakes his head with disgust at himself.

He could just tell her about Addison's diagnosis – which explains both her presence at MSC and some of the more confusing aspects of Mark's demeanor – without mentioning the pregnancy. But Meredith is at her core a physician and she'll ask about Addison's prognosis; there's no way to address that without explaining the treatment delay.

And he can't do that. Not over the phone, and not yet.

He's turning the device over in his palm, thinking about what to do next, when he gets a text from Meredith.

 _Zo's already sleeping and I'm right behind her. Call in the next few mins if you want to say goodnight – otherwise you're not going to get much except snores._

He smiles at that. Meredith's snoring is, for the most part, under control these days, but he can't help remembering fondly how shocked he was the first time he heard those loud noises ripping shockingly from her small body.

His phone buzzes again – this time with a picture: Zola asleep, curled up in the big bed with one arm around her pink kangaroo, impossibly long lashes resting on her round little cheeks. He feels a powerful tug of longing and wonders, not for the first time, if technology makes it easier or harder to be away from loved ones.

Easier, in the long run, he decides – as he usually does – even though he wishes he could be there in person.

He dials her number.

"Hey." Her voice is scratchy when she answers and he takes a moment just to drink it in. He can tell from its timbre exactly how close she is to sleep and he wants nothing more, in that moment, than to be transported the block and a half to the apartment.

"Did I wake you?"

"No. But I'm not going to be awake for long. This little heating pad is putting me to sleep."

Derek smiles at her reference to a sleep-warmed Zola.

"I can't wait to join you," he says honestly.

She makes a soft sound of approval, then asks a few more questions about his mother's recovery; he fills her in.

"Derek … I'm glad you're with your mother and your sisters."

He can tell she means it.

"I might stay a little longer," he says tentatively, "but only if you don't mind…"

He almost wants to her to say yes, she does mind, to beg him to come back to the apartment, so he has an excuse for avoiding what he's now nervous to do. But of course she won't do that.

"You should stay as long as you need to," she says warmly, and guilt courses through him.

 _It's for Meredith,_ he reminds himself. He's protecting her.

...

He meets Mark in the cafeteria. "Just so you know, Liz is still here," Derek warns him. "She's spending the night."

"Liz isn't going to leave your mom's side," Mark predicts, not inaccurately.

"True."

"I heard Nancy and Amy got into it."

Derek glances over at him. "It's a stressful time," he says neutrally.

"Yeah." Mark leans back a little in his chair. "I guess Nancy still hasn't forgiven her."

No, she hasn't. "You know how Nancy is," Derek says.

"Yeah." Mark sighs. "Look, we should probably talk more about … but it's getting late."

Derek nods, not really sure what he means but not wanting to push it either.

"So … you want to see her?"

 _You want to see her?_ He's been trying to talk to her since … well, since what seems like forever ago, back home in Seattle when he first called her cell phone.

He thinks about Meredith back in their apartment curled around Zola, the way he sometimes finds them when he's stuck at the hospital later than she is. They look so sweet cuddled up together that he'll usually hesitate at the foot of the bed, no matter his own exhaustion, because he can't get enough of looking at them and doesn't want to disturb their slumber. He thinks about Meredith with both his children. He's lying to her, just by being here, by his unwillingness to tell her what he's learned about Addison, for his fears that it will too much.

"I want to see her," he says.

…

Mark leads him upstairs; outside the room that must be Addison's, Amy is leaning against the wall with her arms folded.

She pushes off the wall when she sees them. "Hey."

She doesn't look surprised to see Derek; he gives her a brief, tentative smile in greeting.

"Everything okay in there?" Mark nods toward the door, and Amy nods.

"Amy … thank you," Mark says quietly, and she holds up a hand.

"Stop. You lost the right to thank me when you and Addie let me detox in your house."

Mark looks like he's about to say something – then he glances at Derek and seems to change his mind. "Let me just ... " Mark gestures at the room. "And then you can talk to her."

"Should I wait out here?"

Mark gestures for him to follow, then pushes the door open gently.

Derek sees that the room is large and airy, decorated in the same palette of purposefully comforting hues he's seen all over the hospital. There are a couple of colorful crayon drawings pinned to the wall. He has trouble connecting the bright images – a yellow sun exploding with rays, waxy, lopsided red hearts – with the solemn child he assumes provided them.

And then propped up in bed, covered in a pale blue blanket, her unmistakable hair covering her face as she looks downward, is Addison.

The reason for her posture becomes clear as he takes in the rest of the scene: Vivian is curled up on the bed next to her – half on top of her, really, her head nestled against her mother. Derek can't see Vivian's face either, but her posture suggests she's sleeping. Addison is awake; he's watching her stroke her daughter's dirty-blonde hair – which is loose, tangled-looking and tumbling over her back – with a steady, purposeful rhythm.

So focused is she on her daughter that she doesn't seem to notice the door open. Mark calls her name softly and she glances up.

Derek's not sure what he was expecting. Her face is thin, but Addison has always been thin. She's wearing some sort of robe, not a hospital gown; there are shadows under her eyes but then again it's been more than half a decade since he's seen her without makeup. Her appearance is almost _more_ shocking for the fact that she doesn't look much different from … herself.

"Just give me a second," Mark says, gesturing toward the bed, and Derek nods.

Addison turns her head to talk to him as Mark reaches her side and Derek watches the two of them converse quietly, their voices too low for him to hear. Then Mark touches her cheek and she nods.

Images flash through Derek's mind. Meredith in a hospital bed, pregnant with their child. Derek standing helpless next to her. He swallows hard, flooded with gratitude that it's not and with sympathy for two people he used to consider his closest friends.

He watches as Mark carefully lifts Vivian from the bed, noting that Addison's hands remain on her daughter until the last possible moment. Derek can tell from Mark's exaggeratedly precise movements that he's trying hard not to wake her, and it seems to work. He carries his sleeping daughter to the doorway where both Derek and Amy are waiting.

"I've got her," he says softly to Amy. "You should go get some sleep."

"I'm fine here," Amy responds.

"Amy –"

"Mark," she counters. "The one of us who needs sleep is _you_."

They just look at each other for a moment.

"We'll be down the hall," Mark says finally to Derek, gesturing with his chin toward a sign for this wing's family lounge. "Let me know if you … need anything." Derek nods.

And then they're alone.

He looks at Addison again. She doesn't seem to take up much room in the bed, but without Vivian nestled against her the swell in her midsection is obvious. He tries not to stare, but he hears Mark in his head: _She's the one refusing. She won't do it. She won't do any of it._

"Hi," Addison says simply, breaking his reverie, and it's the first time he's heard her voice. It sounds a bit lower than he remembers, a bit different. "How's your mom doing?"

"She's doing okay. Thanks for asking. How, um … how are you?"

She smiles a little. "I've been better."

Tears come to his eyes without warning.

"I'm so sorry," he says helplessly, pressing a hand to the bridge of his nose. "I don't mean to … do you want me to go?"

He's embarrassed. And regretful. But all he can see is the way her hand is resting on her belly, the same way Meredith's does when she sits propped up in bed, reading to Zola, just casually supporting her growing child.

"No," Addison responds. "You don't have to go. But do you get now why I don't really want to see anyone?"

"Yeah, I get it." He gets control of himself quickly and looks ruefully at her. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you."

"Oh, if only you'd said that more when we were married." Her voice is tired, but he can still recognize the cadence. "You done?" She sounds almost teasing.

"I'm done."

"Then sit," she says, and he does. "I'm sorry I didn't call you back."

"Don't apologize," he says immediately. "I didn't know-"

"Of course you didn't. I didn't tell you." She looks down at her own hand on her belly. She lifts it and stretches her fingers. "Macrobiotic diet," she smiles ruefully at him. "I guess all those Hollywood and hippie types are wrong, I don't think it's done anything for my skin."

He doesn't know what to say.

"We were in Switzerland – did Mark tell you?"

He nods.

"Okay." She rests her hand on her belly again. "And Mark told you…" her voice trails off as he nods again. "Good. I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." He pauses, wondering what she does want to talk to him about, and then remembering why he wanted to talk to her. "Addison … thank you for talking to my mom."

She nods, smiling a little at this. "Of course. I'm sorry I couldn't operate."

"You did more than enough. I still don't know why she was so fixated on having you perform the surgery," he adds.

"Your Aunt Vi, probably," she says.

"I remember that you operated on her, but…"

"No, it's more than that. You don't remember what happened?"

Derek shakes his head.

"We were in the OR and she started praying, right before they put her under."

He nods. His Aunt Vi was very religious; he remembers going to Mass with her as a child.

"So she's praying, and one of the residents – this smug kid, snarky, you know – rolls his eyes. And I … kind of called him out in front of the entire OR. I thought Violet was too distracted to notice but she thanked me later, when she woke up."

"You never told me that story."

"Oh." She shrugs. "Well, if I told you every time I threw an arrogant resident out of surgery…"

"Fair enough." He pauses. "Wait, you threw him out? I thought you said you called him out."

"I did both." She smiles a little. "Anyway, I guess Violet appreciated it. She sent me a St. Luke medal when she recovered. I still have it."

He finds the story touching, and a little poignant. They were married when all of this took place, but she never mentioned any of it to him at the time. There was so much silence in their marriage, so much of their lives lived apart even when they lived together.

"… _into your hands I commend my body and my soul_ ," Addison recites quietly. "It's kind of beautiful, isn't it? To have that much faith. I remember being almost envious of her."

"Addison…"

"Your mother thought Violet was afraid to have surgery, but I don't think she was. I think her faith was stronger than her fear."

He furrows his brow, wondering if she's trying to tell him something. "You didn't…"

"…turn religious? God, no," she says, and when she smiles faintly at her own joke her tired face suddenly looks much more familiar. "Anyway … I'm glad your mom's surgery went well. Amy kept me pretty updated, but …" her voice trails off. "Amy's wonderful with Viv," she says, her voice softening when she pronounces her daughter's name.

Derek nods. "I can see that."

"You've met her," she says.

He nods. "She looks like you," he says, because it seems like the right thing to say.

"She looks _just_ like Mark." Addison smiles fondly. "But I saw her come out of me so I know she's mine, too."

"Vivian," he repeats her name. "For Vivian Carlsmith, right?"

Addison nods. "Vivian Adele," she says. "Named after two of two of the only three women who ever mothered me without commanding a salary."

He glances at her.

"The third one is recovering down the hall," she says quietly.

He's touched by her words.

Addison smiles faintly. "I know your mother and I didn't always see eye to eye. And she wasn't thrilled you were marrying someone like me. I was … insecure about it, sometimes. But on the whole, you know … she was nice to me."

He looks down at the pattern on the blue blanket for a moment, feeling sad for some reason.

"Derek…"

He looks up.

"You saw Mark. He's…" She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't really need to. Mark's haunted eyes and gaunt appearance aren't exactly a secret.

"He wants to be here all the time," she says. "I don't think he would go home, except that Viv doesn't want to sleep without him. Amy has been a lifesaver," she adds, pressing her lips together.

And he realizes she didn't ask him in just to talk about his mother, or to see him. That she is asking for his help.

"He's worn out," she says softly. "He's exhausted. He's … this has been very hard on him."

 _This._ From her expression he thinks she means everything: the lost pregnancies, the diagnosis, her decision to delay treatment.

"Amy," he starts tentatively, "she-"

"…can't tell him what to do. She feels too guilty."

"Guilty?"

"About …" Her voice trails off. "I thought you knew."

He assumes it has something to do with Amy's relapse, with the first time she was living with Mark and Addison.

"Everyone feels guilty," Addison says quietly. "Everyone's sorry. Including me. It just … it makes me tired."

She looks tired. Incredibly tired. He opens his mouth to suggest they finish their conversation later, but then she speaks again.

"You don't owe me anything," she says quietly. "I know that. But I'm asking anyway. Please, Derek … please talk to Mark. Try to get him to see … he's missed you, you know? He's going to need you."

"What do you –"

"After," I mean. She's looking past him, her eyes soft. "He's going to need you after."

"Addison … don't talk like that." The words come out automatically. He's uneasy and confused; didn't she say when he first arrived that she didn't want to talk about it?

She's still looking past him. "You know … I hate more than anything what this is doing to her," she says quietly. No need to ask who _her_ is.

When she turns to look at him again her face is composed and she changes the subject abruptly. "Mark says you have a little girl."

He nods, taking her lead. "I do."

Her smile looks genuine. "Do you have a picture?"

"Sure." He pulls up a favorite photograph on his phone and then, because he can't himself, another.

"Oh, she's adorable. Look at her with the crown and the little tea set-"

"Wait, Addison, don't scroll," he warns hastily but it's apparently too late.

"Oh my god … that's you."

He doesn't have to ask which picture she's looking at.

"Derek … there's no need to be embarrassed. You look good in pink. Especially when it's a pink boa."

He shakes his head and then holds out his palm. "I'll take my phone back now."

"And the tiara looks nice in your hair. But I do think the best part is…" she tilts the phone slightly. "Are those _fairy wings_?"

"Butterfly wings," he mutters, but he can't help smiling.

"And what's that on your lap?"

"It's a pink rabbit," he says with as much dignity as he can muster, "wearing a daisy wreath."

"And a tutu," she prompts.

"… and a tutu. Enjoy yourself, Addison … I'll deny it if you tell Mark."

"Mark will take your side, you should see the things Viv's persuaded him to wear."

She's smiling too, and for a moment they're just old friends comparing two little girls whose fathers are apparently wrapped around their fingers. He doesn't mention Meredith's pregnancy; he realizes he's not sure if Mark told her about it; and neither Derek nor Addison mentions Addison's pregnancy.

She continues to reminisce. "There was one Halloween when she got him to dress up as-" she stops talking suddenly, one hand pressing into her forehead.

"Addison?"

"I'm okay," she says, her voice slightly muffled by her hand.

"Did something happen? Do you want me to get Mark?"

"No. I'm fine." She moves her hand. Her eyes look glassy. "I'm just tired," she says apologetically.

"Of course. I should…"

"Wait." She stretches out her hand and he sits back down.

"Addie … it's getting late."

They both look up to see Mark standing in the doorway.

Derek stands up. "I should go and let you rest."

She nods.

"Thank you for … coming."

She reaches for his hand as he and he lets her take it. Her fingers feel surprising strong, her skin cool and dry.

"Derek…"

He leans over to hear her.

"Talk to him."

And say what, he has no idea. The dynamics at play here are beyond him; he's still playing catchup.

"Good night, Addison," he says. He waits a tactful distance from the door while Mark presumably says goodnight and then they walk together toward the family lounge, Derek accepting that he should probably have a conversation with Amy, too, before he leaves for the night.

They're almost at the family lounge when they hear Amy calling Mark's name along with one anxiously gasped command: "Hurry!"

* * *

 _TBC. Sorry, you know I'm mean, and I'll take any opportunity to end with a semi-cliffhanger. Don't hate me too much, or if you're going to hate me ... at least tell me what you liked, too. PS I know a bunch of this chapter is sad, but raise your hand if you still liked seeing Derek show Addison a picture of Zola ... because I know I did. Oh, and those of you who asked about Meredith's dark and twisty - she's still Meredith, and the story has plenty more left to go..._


	13. daughter

**A/N: Thank you,** as always, to everyone who's reading and reviewing. I feel like interest in this story may be dropping off and I really hope that's not the case - if you _are_ losing interest, tell me why, and I'll see if I can fix it. And if you're not - tell me you're not, so I can stay on the right track. Enjoy, and remember to feed your authors. xoxo

* * *

 _daughter  
_...

* * *

"Mommy...?"

Meredith opens her eyes, feeling a soft little hand on her face.

"Mommy, you sleeping?"

"Not anymore, Zozo," Meredith murmurs, pulling her daughter down to cuddle. Zola settles against her, then whispers, "I'm thirsty."

"There's water on the…" and then she remembers there's not a sippy cup of water on the nightstand, because her nightstand isn't here, because she forgot to leave one there before she put Zola to bed in their rented apartment. That they're across the country and everything is different. She strokes her daughter's back.

"You want some water, sweetie?"

"Yeah." Zola pats her mother's stomach. "Baby thirsty too?"

"I don't know, but baby is definitely making Mommy have to pee."

She swings her legs out of bed, stretching a crick in her neck, and lifts her daughter into her arms.

"Where's Daddy?"

Meredith shifts Zola higher on her hip as she carries her to the kitchen. "Daddy's with Grammy. He'll be home soon."

"'kay." Apparently satisfied, Zola rests her head on her mother's shoulder.

Meredith sets Zola on the counter and fumbles in the cabinet for a sippy cup. The time on the microwave catches her eye, but Derek sent her a text to let her know he'd be staying a bit later, so she's not concerned. She just hopes he can come home in time to get sufficient sleep – it can't have been easy spending so much time with his sisters, not when there's tension among them and Meredith has a feeling Derek probably ended up in the middle.

"Mommy … this is not my house," Zola says conversationally as Meredith fills the cup with water, her sleepy movements slow. She rubs her eyes, squinting a little in the kitchen light.

"You're right, Zo." Meredith passes her daughter the pink cup and watches her take a sip. "We're just staying here for a little while."

"Little while." Zola takes another sip, then offers it to Meredith – well, sticks it in her mouth is more like it, so Meredith obligingly takes a sip too.

She's just set Zola back on the bed when her blackberry, sitting on the nightstand, buzzes.

"Mommy getting email," Zola chatters.

"That's right."

"It's Daddy," she guesses.

"Probably." Meredith smiles at her, then lifts the device.

"Daddy?" She leans over her mother's hand.

"Not this time, sweetie."

"Who is it?"

"Actually, it's from Liz, Zozo, you remember Daddy's sister who played with you?"

"Yeah, Lizzie," Zola repeats thoughtfully. "Make a tower?"

"Exactly. Lizzie helped you make a tower."

"Another one."

"Maybe she'll help you make another one soon. Lie down, sweetie, it's late."

Zola allows herself to be encouraged into a sleeping position, then sits up again.

"What did Lizzie say?"

Meredith glances at the email again. "She said … time for all little girls to be sleeping."

"No she didn't!" Zola giggles.

"Okay, she just said time for Zola to be sleeping."

"Mommy, you're silly."

Meredith puts down her device on the bedside table with one last glance and flicks the light off. It doesn't get terribly dark – the city light is persistent through the thin shades, and she can still see her daughter clearly in the greyish light.

Zola's little pink lips purse as if she's about to utter her favorite phrase – _I'm not sleepy!_ – sure to be followed by a request to get out of bed and play. But she surprises Meredith by snuggling down instead and falling asleep rapidly.

It takes Meredith a little longer before she joins her, finally soothed by her daughter's warm snuggly body and peaceful slumbering breaths.

...

" _Hurry!_ "

Mark is already bolting when Amy calls his name. Derek is right behind him when they turn the corner to the family waiting room. The first thing they see is a man in pale green scrubs; his back is to them and he's apparently facing off with Amy, whose hands are extended on either side of her as if she's protecting someone.

Derek is puzzled.

"Get away from her," Mark says, his voice determined – deadly, even, but low.

"Sir, calm down." The other man turns around. "I was just – "

"You were just nothing. Our information is on file on main and on this floor. You shouldn't be doing anything."

"I'm subbing," he says uneasily. "Just for tonight, but this woman says she's not her parent." The man indicates Amy.

"I'm basically her aunt. That's what I said." Amy glares. "And I also said you don't know how to handle this."

"I know I heard a child scream and if I didn't at least investigate-"

"I'm her father," Mark cuts him off. "Thanks for your concern. Now get out of here."

When he's left, Amy steps away to reveal what she's been protecting. It's Vivian, standing still with one arm slightly lifted. Derek can tell something is off right away. Her long hair is tangled around her pale face. Her eyes are stretched wide as if something is frightening her; the shape of them now making her look more like Addison. They're glassy; her lips are trembling and she makes a soft sound.

She looks, in a word … terrified.

Derek glances uneasily between Mark and Amelia. Neither one of them looks particularly surprised, just grim.

Mark goes over to her and crouches down at her height, keeping a distance. Derek waits for him to try to get her attention or to hold her but he just speaks quietly almost past her, not touching her.

"Daddy," Vivian cries suddenly, her head turning away from Mark, and her arms reaching out. "Daddy!"

Her voice is a frightened shriek now and Derek is horrified, he can't imagine how Mark, who is sitting inches from her, feels to see her desperate for him and apparently unable to see that he's there. He has a hard time blaming anyone for investigating the scene if this is what she was doing before; she sounds horrified and in need of help.

"Let's go back to bed," Mark says calmly, his voice a low and soothing hum, still making no effort to hold or comfort her. He seems to know what he's doing; Derek stands back against the wall of the lounge, giving them room. Vivian's steps aren't tentative but there's something … _off_ about them, and that's when Derek realizes she's still asleep.

Deeply.

He watches Mark takes her little shoulder in his hand, and lead her carefully in a slow loop – not turning her aggressively, but slowly and gently, until she's back on the couch that he Derek now sees has one of those stuffed-animal pillows Zola has too, and a soft little knitted blanket; the air conditioning makes it cold in here. Mark follows her at a distance, close enough to guide her back to the couch but not crowding her. Vivian allows herself to be encouraged back onto the couch. Mark covers her with the blanket when her head is back on the pillow. Her eyes are still open and frightened looking.

Suddenly she lets out one ear piercing shriek. Derek jumps at the unexpected sound to see that all of a sudden her eyes have changed; they're droopy with sleep and confusion.

"Daddy?" She mumbles it tiredly, with no desperation.

"I'm right here. Go back to sleep." Mark moves her hair away from her face, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders, and Vivian seems to drift off immediately.

Mark turns around then, jamming his hands in his pocket, seemingly daring Derek to say something. He doesn't say anything

Amy is speaking quietly to Mark, apologizing.

"It's not your fault." Mark glares in the general direction of the doorway. "It's in the file."

He glances at Derek now.

"Yeah, I told you she doesn't like to sleep without us but I guess I should have said I don't like her to sleep without us."

"That was a night terror," Derek realizes.

"Atypical night terror," Mark confirms. "Stress doesn't cause them, but it exacerbates them."

Derek recalls this from his studies.

"Right. So. Yeah. The kid has some stress." Mark gives a dark laugh. "She's done it a few times since she was around three, and we had it under control. You know, we had a routine or we tried to, you know, you time the disturbances and then you set an alarm, you wake them up before, but the scheduling is rough now. And she sleepwalks too, which is – "

Derek notices Amy looks suddenly very pale.

"-which is a whole other thing. I lock the door when we sleep in the home now. I keep her with me and lock the door; I'm afraid of what she'll do. We used to have a bell on her door, you know, she didn't want to sleep with us before all this. She was independent. But she wasn't really doing it that much until recently."

"Sleepwalking," Derek confirms uncertainly.

"Yeah. Addison found her in the kitchen drawers once. She was looking through the cutlery. Including knives. And then with the night terrors. The first few times? It was like a freakin' horror movie," he says honestly. "You start to think you're the one having a nightmare and then she snaps out of it and she's just your kid again."

Derek nods.

He shakes his head. "The night terrors – this one was mild, comparatively. She'll scream and you can't do anything about it, she's so deeply asleep that waking her is a nightmare, no pun intended, but then at least she doesn't remember anything the next morning. But you … you remember all of it. They always say it's harder on the parents."

"That sounds difficult," Derek says, not sure what else to say.

"Yeah, the sleeping is a problem. It's been worse since Addison got sick, worse when she's separated from her. But I can't really do anything except…"

…except try to keep everything together. The last pieces of Mark's and Vivian's wan appearances fall into place. From what Derek can gather, no one in the Montgomery-Sloan family has had a decent night's sleep in far longer than seems possible.

"They usually grow out of it around six. That's what they say."

"Is she –"

"She's seeing a shrink, yeah, but she won't go unless one of us comes with her." He looks away for a moment. "If you'd seen her before…" his voice is faint. "The first day of kindergarten, you know, all the parents go – well, you haven't done that yet but you'll see," he tells Derek. "Viv was so cute in her uniform, and she had these pigtails – Addison did the cutest things with her hair, I have no idea how she learned them –"

"The way all rich girls learn to do hair," Amy breaks in, "…practicing on their horses."

Mark laughs a little at this. "Anyway, all the parents are starting to go in, and we get to the gate and it's this big imposing place, you know, and she's tiny, there are these big kids around ad she puts out her little hand like this…" Mark 's oversized hand rises in the air and his eyes are far away, he's so caught up in the story that he brings them both with him and Derek can see what Vivian's little hand must have looked like upraised on the first day of school. "And she says, you two should probably head home now. I can take it from here."

Mark shakes his head, a smile softening the hollow cheeks of his face.

"The first time she sleepwalked," he says quietly, "I didn't realize it so I picked her up, and she flipped out when she woke up – really freaked out – so yeah, we looked into it, we learned. There's nothing wrong with her. It just … is what it is."

Derek nods. "It seems … challenging," he says tentatively, trying to strike a balance.

"At least she doesn't remember it. It's worse for me, and I'd rather it that way, you know? I wish it could-"

He stops talking but Derek gets what he means. He'd rather he could take on all the pain in his family father than see his loved ones take it.

"You know what I mean. You have kids."

Derek doesn't miss the use of _kids_ , plural. He wonders if Mark would say he, too, has _kids._ All these years in parallel: elementary school, high school, college, med school, internship, residency, fellowships … and here they are with unborn children at almost the exact same gestation.

It feels right, somehow. The fact that Mark's baby, and his wife, are in danger? That doesn't feel right.

He tries to remember what he knows about sleep disturbances in young children; they're fairly common, he's aware. He's pretty sure there's a genetic component, but Derek has had countless sleepovers with Mark in his youth and doesn't remember any disturbances, sleepwalking, talking, or night terrors.

"You didn't-"

"No." Derek can tell from Mark's expression that he understood what Derek planned to ask. But Addison did some sleepwalking as a kid. You didn't know that?"

Derek shakes his head.

"Yeah, her parents just had the nannies lock her in and told Addie people would think she was _peculiar_ if they found out."

That doesn't surprise him.

"She grew out of it." Mark shrugs. "So will Viv, I know, but…"

Amy comes back then. "Addie didn't hear, she's sleeping."

"Okay." Mark nods. "Good."

"I'm going to stay for a little while," Amy says. Amy and Mark exchange a glance and then he nods. Derek hasn't been back with them long enough to understand this shorthand, but the mere fact that they have it underscores the fact that they have been operating as some sort of team.

Mark rouses Vivian gently, she seems groggy and cranky, turning her head into his shoulder. Finally, he just wraps her in the blanket that's been covering her and lifts her up. Amy picks up her raccoon pillow – Derek can't help shuddering a little at this, both Vivian's parents grew up in Connecticut but he supposes to a city child the raccoon might look cuddly and cute; Derek can't help but see them as devoted and devious garbage eaters.

The raccoon is a distraction, of course. Really, he wants to say something to Mark, but he's not sure what it would be. _I'm sorry,_ no there it is again, the thing that hasn't felt right from the beginning even though there have been so many times he's wanted to say it.

There's a loud announcement as they cross the hall and Vivian stirs in response. Derek sees Mark cup her head against his shoulder, but she wakes as they enter the elevator.

Vivian is whimpering something Derek doesn't hear – all he can make out is her tone, which sounds sad.

"Not tonight, Viv, it's late," Mark replies. "Mommy's sleeping."

"No."

"We're coming back tomorrow, it's okay."

Mark hefts his daughter a little higher with one arm and shrugs the canvas bag back on his shoulder.

"We'll just get a cab here. Are you…"

"We rented a place a couple blocks that way."

"Pretty convenient."

"Yeah."

"We're just over a bit – you know, it's quick enough in a cab."

Derek realizes Mark doesn't know that he visited their townhouse – presumably Amy didn't mention it, he wonders briefly though if Vivian simply forgot or didn't care, or if Amy asked her not to say anything.

"You need a hand?"

"Nah, I got it." Mark, clearly used to this routine, frees a hand to hail a cab with a half-asleep Vivian still in his arms and his large canvas bag balanced on his shoulder. "Night," he says offhandedly.

"Good night." Derek pauses. "Mark – wait."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," Derek says, feeling a little silly, but Mark just nods with acknowledgement and then tosses his bag into the backseat before holding Vivian closer to slide both of them into the cab. He closes the door and Derek watches the blur of yellow speed off down the steaming street. He watches until he can no longer see it, not really sure why he lingers, and then starts the short walk back to their rented apartment. He feels … disconcerted, for lack of a better term.

The night has been overwhelming in some ways, from his mother's surgery to his brief meeting with Addison to Vivian's eerie sleep disturbance. Now the street is hot and odorous as he walks, rather oppressive, and he has to try not to notice something scurrying among the black plastic trash bags heaped on the curb. He misses the clean green smell of the walk from his car to his house in Seattle. He misses the peacefully quiet air. But mostly he misses Meredith and Zola, and it's the thought that he will be crawling into bed with them in just a few minutes that sustains him.

…

Still, he doesn't fully shake the disconcerted feeling until he's pushing open the door of their rented apartment and sees the remains of a tea party on the living room floor. There's a towel spread out approximating a picnic blanket, and the little pink and white plastic parts of the set look comfortingly familiar.

The air in the apartment is cool and dry, AC pumping. In their bedroom, Meredith and Zola are sleeping spread out across the mattress, taking up a surprising amount of room. Zola's head is resting against her mother's side, but she's lying horizontally. Perpendicular to each other, they manage to cover a good amount of the king-sized mattress, and he smiles at the sight. He finds pajama bottoms in the dark, not wanting to wake up Meredith or Zola. Neither wakes, their deep breathing sleepy and regular. He lifts Zola carefully. She's sleeping deeply; he can't resist pressing a kiss to her warm little forehead, but she doesn't stir. He places her gently on his other side, needing to be with both of them at the same time.

Meredith rolls over when he's eased down on the mattress, her sleepy body melting into his. She's warm and soft and he pulls her close, breathing in the scent of her hair and feeling a powerful rush of tenderness.

"I'm glad you're home," she whispers, leaning up to kiss him but half asleep, only reaching his jaw with her warm lips.

"Me too," he says honestly.

"Tomorrow," Meredith mumbles, yawning, "tomorrow you can tell me where you really were." And with that she curls into his chest with a little sigh, one of her hands settling on his bare shoulder, and falls back to sleep.

* * *

 _TBC, of course. Reading? Enjoying? Please review! It's the fuel to my fire, the gas to my taxicab, the ... you get the idea. I'm not too proud to beg for some button pressing. You guys rock, and I appreciate it._


	14. light one candle

**A/N:** I'm sorry for the long delay between updates! Thank you as always for your reviews and thoughts. This chapter is dedicated to **birdieq** and her hives (words I never thought I'd post, take one...) and everyone affected by the Comcast outage, which I hope is fixed now! And I hope you'll read, enjoy, and let me know what you think.

* * *

 _light one candle  
_ _..._

* * *

 _Tomorrow you can tell me where you really were._

He lies awake for a few minutes after Meredith's surprising words, but exhaustion overtakes him before he can spend too much time mulling and draws him into a deep, dreamless sleep. In the morning, he wakes up alone.

In an empty bed.

For just a moment panic curdles his stomach, and then he pushes open the bedroom door and hears his daughter's cheerful little voice drifting down the hallway.

Zola turns to him with a big smile when he enters the kitchen; she's seated in a booster chair, a bowl of cheerios and a sippy cup in front of her, and she waves her spoon at him happily.

"Daddy, you were too sleepy!"

"I was. I can't believe you let me sleep." He lifts her into his arms for some good morning kisses. "You and Mommy were so quiet."

"Yeah, and tricky."

"That too." Derek sets her back in her booster seat, then takes the cup of coffee Meredith is holding out to him with gratitude, feeling like he doesn't really deserve either of them at the moment.

"Derek … "

He looks over at her nervously.

"Look, I don't need to know where you were last night, if you can't tell me," she says gently. "I _would_ like to know that you're okay, though…"

The trust in her eyes slays him. "I'm okay," he whispers.

"Okay, then." She nods.

And he realizes he can't _not_ tell her the truth.

"I'm okay," he repeats quietly, "but ... Addison isn't."

She raises her eyebrows. "You heard something."

He nods, reaching out for her arm and moving her gently a few paces away; for some reason wanting distance from their daughter while he shares this sad news.

"Addison is a patient at MSC."

"Oh, Derek." She sighs. "I'm sorry. I know you wondered– but Nancy seemed so sure she'd know if Addison was sick."

"Well … she didn't." Nancy has been overconfident before, but Meredith won't know that.

"What's her diagnosis?"

It's proceeding exactly the way Derek feared. Meredith is a clinician at heart and she'll want to know the details of Addison's condition, her prognosis, her treatment …

… and he can't answer her questions without telling her about Addison's pregnancy. He looks into Meredith's wide eyes and knows he can't lie, either; he tells her about the cancer and then he braces himself and continues.

"She's delaying treatment right now," he says simply, deciding that term is preferable to _refusing,_ "because she's … because she's pregnant."

Meredith blinks. "She's pregnant?"

"Mer." He sets down his coffee cup and takes her arms gently.

"No, it's okay." She lowers her head. "It's just … god, poor Addison. And that poor little girl. How far along is she?"

He pauses.

"Derek?"

"Fifteen weeks," he admits, and he feels her soft gasp like a punch.

"Meredith. This is difficult to hear, I know. But she's a doctor, a good one, whose seen dozens of pregnant women with cancer over the years. She … probably knows what she's doing."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I don't know," he admits. "Mark doesn't."

"Poor Mark." She steps forward into his arms then and he holds her tightly, burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair. He's not sure who's comforting whom, he just knows he needs it.

"Me too!"

They turn to see Zola trying to get down from her booster seat. "Hug me too," she instructs, and Meredith laughs when she pulls back.

"You got it, Zo." She lifts Zola from her seat and lets her cling arms and legs around her mother. "Ooh, that's a good hug, thank you."

"And Daddy too."

"Even better." Meredith carries Zola the few steps to Derek's side and he wraps them both in his arms.

"Is that good?"

"That's _really_ good," Zola says happily, her voice muffled, and both parents laugh.

…

Derek's been emailing with his sisters and knowing there are never fewer than two Shepherd offspring in with his mother makes him comfortable lingering in the apartment after breakfast. More than just comfortable, it feels crucial. And it's a level of relaxation they would never normally have on a weekday, enjoying a cup of coffee with Meredith while Zola runs back and forth across the air-conditioned living room in an elaborate imaginary game neither of them can quite understand, but which seems to have their daughter enthralled.

"Mommy, you're the blue one," Zola instructs breathlessly on her next circuit, and Meredith nods with great solemnity.

"Got it."

Meredith takes a long sip of coffee. "I'm not sure what I just signed on to."

"Can't be any worse than what I signed on to," Derek reminds her, "since I'm 'polka-dot.'"

Meredith smiles. "Derek…"

"Hm?" He leans back on the couch, drawing her with him.

"I was thinking I'd like to go up and see your mom today," Meredith says tentatively, "just for a few minutes, you know, if you think she wouldn't mind."

"I think she would be touched," Derek says honestly, and the truth is that he is too. For someone whose parents provided so little model of unconditional love – by any scale, really – l Meredith excels at it.

"We'll come with you."

Meredith's brow furrows. "But I thought she said no kids."

"She said no kids in the hospital, but she really means her room," Derek says. "Zola and I can hang out in the lounge or the cafeteria … so we're around just in case."

"Just in case what?"

He doesn't really have an answer for that – it just feels right. So he kisses her instead and even though her expression makes clear she knows what he's doing, she kisses him back.

…

They walk together the short distance to MSC. The heat wave hasn't broken yet, beads of sweat dotting their foreheads after less than half a block. Only Zola doesn't seem to mind being outside, but that's mainly down to the young, ponytailed dogwalker who crosses their path while juggling four leashes at once.

"So many doggies," she sighs happily, and after the dogwalker assures Meredith and Derek all four dogs are kid approved, their daughter has the opportunity to be sniffed, licked, and overall adored by the combined affections of one chocolate lab, one fussy-looking purebred little thing, one miniature dog about the size of a can of soda, and one sturdy mutt.

"You realize she's going to want a dog now," Meredith says, grinning at him.

"Two kids and a dog. Who's going to build our white picket fence?"

They're still smiling when they separate in the mercifully air-conditioned lobby.

…

Carolyn Shepherd's door is half open, and Meredith knocks lightly before she enters.

"Meredith!" Liz crosses the room to greet her. "Hey."

Kathleen is there too, typing something on her blackberry from one of the guest chairs, but she flashes Meredith a quick smile before returning to her device.

Carolyn is propped up in bed in a pink and white hospital gown, blankets folded neatly at her waist; there's color in her cheeks, someone has carefully fixed her grey hair, and she looks for all the world like she's holding court in her own home.

"You look great," Meredith says honestly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I can't wait to get out of here."

"Mom's tough." Liz grins. "Wait for five minutes and she'll tell you how she was running my girl scout troop's fundraiser ten minutes after giving birth to Derek."

"That's an exaggeration, Elizabeth," Carolyn says firmly. "It was at least twenty minutes." She gives Meredith a conspiratorial wink, then gestures with the arm not hooked up to an IV.

"Come sit down, dear."

Meredith pulls out one of the pink vinyl guest chairs and sits down.

"Now, Meredith. Where is my granddaughter?"

"Um…"

"Don't be offended, Meredith," Liz says quickly. "My mother still asks me where my children are all the time and most of them can already vote. You'll learn that she's not happy unless you give her a list up front."

"Just because they can vote doesn't mean they're not still your children," Carolyn scolds. "You're still my child even though you're getting on in years, Elizabeth."

Meredith tries to hide a smile as she watches conflicting emotions play across Liz's face: touched by her mother's words … and offended at the reference to her age.

"Zola's with her dad," Meredith says, "probably talking him into ice cream."

"See, that isn't so hard," Carolyn reproves Liz, who holds up both her hands innocently.

"It wasn't so hard when I just had Clara, but it gets a little more complicated when you have five," she says, laughing.

"You don't have to tell me about having five children." Carolyn raises an eyebrow, managing to look formidable even propped up in bed in a hospital gown. "Tell me, Lizzie, can your five manage to get along in one room for more than ten minutes?"

Liz and Kathleen exchange a glance.

"We get along," Kathleen says quickly.

"Mm." Carolyn glances at Meredith. "Do you have siblings, dear?"

"Um … kind of," Meredith says after a long pause, and is relieved when Carolyn just nods and says, "then you understand what I mean."

Carolyn extends a hand to her two daughters. "I want you to be nice to Amy," she says.

"Mom," Kathleen says gently, "you don't have to worry about us getting along. Everything's fine."

"I'm a mother, I know when everything's fine and when it's not." Carolyn frowns. "It's been years, girls, and I won't be around forever, you know."

"Now, that's not fair when you've just gotten out of surgery," Liz chides.

Meredith fingers the pink vinyl arms of her chair, a little uncomfortable to be listening to this family discussion.

"Meredith, I'm so sorry, you must think I raised very poorly-mannered children."

Meredith smiles weakly. "I think your children are great, Mrs. Shepherd. Carolyn," she corrects herself in haste when Derek's mother frowns.

"My sons-in-law call me _Mom_ ," Carolyn says. "Of course, you can call me whatever you want."

It's tactful, Meredith thinks, that Carolyn doesn't mention that her former daughter-in-law did the same, assuming she did.

"So did half the neighborhood kids." Liz grins at Meredith. "Five was never enough for Mom."

Meredith nods, appreciating that Derek's sisters are including her in conversation and seem welcoming, even if the press of Shepherds feels a bit overwhelming.

"My older kids actually called her _Mom_ too at the beginning," Kathleen says with a smile, "because we did, you know? And at first we couldn't convince them to call her anything else. But you know how it goes – eventually it all works out."

 _Eventually it all works out._ That's a nice thought.

Maybe it could even be true.

…

Derek brings Zola to the cafeteria, inevitably the most fun part of any hospital for her; she starts bouncing on her toes the moment they step into the fluorescent lights and waits only half a heartbeat before begging for ice cream. It's not quite eleven a.m., but Derek decides it's dessert time somewhere – if not in Seattle, where it's three hours earlier – and acquiesces.

" _Yum_ ," Zola says with ecstasy, and he can't help smiling. It's hard to be sad around his daughter; even in her stubborn moments, the way she'll wail with indignation at how unreasonably her parents can be about things like not touching electrical cords and not grabbing cats by their tails and interspersing a life of cheerful play with horrible things like meals and baths – she's still a joy.

"Have some," she suggests to Derek, and he takes a bite of her ice cream.

"Mm," he says with exaggerated appreciation, and Zola smiles, satisfied. Derek is used to sharing food with his daughter; any reaction not suited to the finest Michelin-starred cuisine is unacceptable, whether it's for ice cream, cheerios, or imaginary carrots.

"Where's Mommy?"

"She's visiting Grammy," he reminds her. "We'll see her soon."

"Can I see Grammy?"

"Not today, sweetie. But you will see her very soon, because she's going to come stay with us."

"In _our_ house?" Zola's eyes widen when her father nods, her tone eager. "In my room?"

Derek can't help smiling at this question – Zola's _room_ is theirs here, but her enthusiasm is catching. "We'll give Grammy her own room but she'll be right in our apartment."

"And I can play with her!"

"And you can play with her." He kisses Zola's hair and settles in, keeping up a mostly one-sided conversation with his daughter while she eats her ice cream. They got so used to one-sided chatter as they worked to develop her verbal skills that it was almost shocking when her language explosion came. Now Zola holds her own – and then some – but she still appreciates a little narration while she's eating.

"And after that, Zo, then we can-"

"Hey."

Derek looks up at the interruption to see Mark walking towards them, hand in hand with his daughter.

"Hey." Derek lifts Zola onto his lap. "You got my email."

"Maybe I just got hungry." For a second Mark's eyes almost twinkle and Derek can see the best friend of his youth under the grey hair of the man standing in front of him.

"Maybe." Derek turns his head slightly to smile at the little girl holding Mark's hand. "Hi, Vivian."

She doesn't answer, just leans against Mark and picks at the peeling pink polish on her fingernails.

"Hey, you know what, Viv?" Mark pulls out an empty chair, sits down and lifts her onto his knee. "I met this guy," and he points at Derek, "when I was the same age you are now."

Vivian looks at Derek with mild interest, then back to her father. "You did?"

"Yes. Almost six, just like you." Mark is playing with the end of her messy ponytail, then smiles across the table at the bright-eyed toddler staring back at him.

"Zola, right? Hey there."

"Hi," Zola says solemnly.

Mark turns back to Derek. "How's your mom?"

"She's doing well. Thanks." He pauses for a moment. "You know, I'm sure she would-"

"Zola, how's that ice cream?" Mark asks abruptly before Derek can finish.

"It's yummy."

Vivian is looking with some interest between Zola's face and her ice cream cup, but still shying away from both of them, leaning back against Mark.

"Yeah? Hey, this is Vivian," Mark tells Zola. "She's five." At a look from his daughter Mark adds, "and three quarters."

"Hi!" Zola is smiling now, eyes on the older girl. "You like ice cream?"

Vivian glances up at her father instead of answering.

"You can tell her." Mark rests his hand on the top of her head.

Vivian nods without speaking; Zola beams in response and holds out her little paper cup of ice cream.

"That is so nice of you," Mark says, smiling at her. "Top-notch sharing, kiddo. But I think we'll wait and get our own. Come on, Viv – you need real food first."

"No, I don't," she whines as Mark stands up, tipping her gently off his lap, and then tows her toward the food line.

"Daddy, that's my friend," Zola says happily, pointing with her free hand toward the tousled back of Vivian's head, and Derek thinks he'd love to have even a fraction of her sunny nature.

When Mark and his daughter return to their shared table, they seem to have compromised on some sort of yogurt-granola-and-fruit concoction, which she looks at with distaste when he opens it. The food at MSC is surprisingly high quality, not like a typical hospital cafeteria, but Vivian wrinkles her nose and refuses to try it.

"Two bites," Mark suggests.

"No, I don't like it."

"You haven't even tried it, Viv."

She just pushes the cup away and scowls.

Mark sighs, stands up, and holds out his hand, and Vivian's scowl melts a little as they disappear yet again.

When they return, Vivian has a little cup of ice cream to match Zola's.

Mark gives Derek a helpless shrug. "It has protein and fat, right? That counts for something? It's better than a lollipop," he adds, seeming to be bargaining with himself.

Vivian makes very slow headway on her ice cream, Derek notices, and she occasionally casts shy glances at Zola, who is devouring hers while offering Derek sporadic bites – well, not _offering_ so much as jamming the little wooden paddle into his mouth of her own accord, but he appreciates the gesture.

"I don't think she's eaten anything green since Switzerland," Mark says ruefully, apparently still focused on his daughter's eating habits or lack thereof.

"I don't like Switzerland," Viv says suddenly in her gravelly little voice, one of the few times Derek can remember her volunteering any words without being prodded.

"She's a New York snob, what can I say." Mark raises his eyes to the heavens. "But you liked learning some German, didn't you, Viv?"

" _Ja_ ," Vivian says pensively, licking her ice cream, and then smiles a little.

Did Mark's daughter actually crack a joke? Derek can't help feeling some relief along with surprise. The half-smile – maybe more like a quarter smile – transforms her small, wan face; Derek sees a flash of the energetic little boy who charmed the entire Shepherd family the first time Derek brought him home so many years ago.

" _Sehr gut, mein liebling_!" Mark sounds more enthusiastic than Derek has heard him, too, and he kisses the side of his daughter's head. "Maybe you'll be a linguist when you grow up, Vivi."

"No, I want to be a nurse," Vivian corrects as Mark leans in for a bite of her ice cream, which she allows.

"A nurse?" Derek is interested, as he leans in just in time to stop a glob of melting ice cream from falling on Zola's lap. "Why a nurse?"

He's half-expecting Vivian to ignore his question but she responds.

"'Cause nurses help sick people." Vivian sounds like the answer is obvious.

"So do doctors," Mark reminds her, his voice gentle.

"But _nurses_ get to go home," Viv says darkly. "When they're done at work they go home, Nurse Rita told me that. _And_ she has three kids." Vivian holds up three fingers for emphasis and Derek notes with amusement that Zola, who has been staring transfixed at the older girl, holds up three of her own pudgy little fingers in response so that the children together look like two small girl scouts saluting each other across the table.

"We go home," Mark says faintly.

Vivian lowers her three fingers. "Nurse Rita doesn't have a pager either."

Mark looks stricken.

"I think you'd be a great nurse," Derek says hastily, smiling at Vivian. "Nurses have a really hard job, but hospitals can't run without them."

"I don't want any more ice cream." Abruptly, Vivian pushes back her chair and glances at Mark.

"Okay, go throw it out." He points toward the nearest trash can and watches as she walks toward it.

"First they're little," Mark says quietly, his eyes on Vivian so Derek can't see his face, "and they're cute and they play house and they pour imaginary coffee and they still think you can fix everything … and then they get big enough to break your heart."

Derek swallows hard.

"I knew she'd do it," Mark says, his voice so low now Derek can barely make out the words, "I just figured I had a few more years." He pauses. "I guess I figured I'd have a few more years for a lot of things."

* * *

 _TBC (of course). So, a bit of a transitional chapter. Yes to the angst but no to the cliffhanger. We haven't seen the last of working through the effect of Addison's condition on Derek, Meredith, and Mer's pregnancy, either. Right now, though? Everyone's kind of just doing the best they can. With no cliffhanger, it may be time for a flashback. Any requests? Zo-doption? Proposal? Early MerDer relationship? Backstory to Meredith's discomfort with the sibling questions?_

 _Oh, and finally, do I have any German-speaking readers? Please forgive my bad German if so. Entschuldige, bitte._


	15. INTERLUDE: healing hands

**A/N:** Thank you so, so much for all the kind words in your reviews. I am so happy you are enjoying this story. I am really enjoying writing it. Now, flashback time. To the anonymous reviewer who requested the Zodoption flashback – first of all, you're my hero for the word _Zodoption._ (How did I miss that one? It's almost as cute as Zola is.) That flashback is coming up, I promise, and will probably be the next one. And _danke_ to the German-speaking readers who responded to the last chapter; you made my day! I hope you will all enjoy this flashback and let me know what you think...

* * *

INTERLUDE

 _healing hands  
..._

* * *

"Dr. Shepherd, are you free for a consult for Dr. Burke?"

The intern's face is serious, her tone formal; he nods in a neutral, professional manner, closing the chart he's been perusing.

"Of course."

He follows her down the hallway, watching as she nimbly avoids passing gurneys and clumps of staff. A consult for Dr. Burke. This could be useful; Burke has never seemed to be crazy about Derek, and hasn't since his arrival in Seattle. Maybe this consult will help sway –

But then suddenly small fingers have grasped the sleeve of his lab coat and before he can react, she's yanking him into an on call room and closing the door behind them.

He looks Meredith up and down, from her satisfied smile to the tapping white toes of her blue sneakers, then shakes his head. "There's no consult," he concludes.

"There's no consult," she admits.

"Dr. Grey," he scolds with mock severity, "do you know how valuable an attending physician's time is?"

"Oh, I do know," she responds, lifting an eyebrow. "It's _very_ valuable."

"Not to mention I'm a department head."

"So even more valuable."

"That's correct. So what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm very," she reaches up and pushes his lab coat off his shoulders, " _very,_ " and then she steps back and pulls her scrub top over her head, "sorry."

"I hope so," he says, although he can't really maintain his façade anymore as her fingers play at the collar of his shirt. Then she's standing on her tiptoes to press her lips against his and any hope of rational thought disappears altogether.

"So," she teases him afterwards, "how much would you say that time was worth?"

She's lying in his arms, fingers trailing down his chest while his hands sift through her tumbled hair.

"Oh, I'd say that was priceless."

"Priceless!" She laughs. "You definitely think a lot of yourself."

"You seemed to think a lot of me earlier, based on your-"

"Okay, I get it." She shoves at him; he catches her small hand and kisses it before she can do any damage, and then they settle back down.

She curls against his still-thumping heart and he realizes he hasn't felt this alive in years.

A ringing sound blares through their peaceful afterglow.

"I should get a discount for this," Meredith jokes as Derek jumps up from the bed to check his phone.

"You knew you were seducing a doctor," he protests. "Doctors need to answer their phones."

"Seducing! Is that what I was doing?"

He's about to offer a teasing reply when he grabs his ringing phone from his lab coat pocket and realizes, with a sinking feeling, who's calling.

"Derek?"

He glances at his phone again, then back at Meredith. "I should-"

"You need to take it?"

He nods.

She starts to dress quickly, clearly trying to help by giving him privacy; he gazes at her, wanting to watch, but his concentration is broken by another ring and there's only one thing he can do.

"Shepherd."

"Derek … it's Miles Silver."

"Hi." He glances at Meredith, who gives him a half-amused, half-seductive smile as she ties the waist of her scrub pants. He watches rather mournfully as black lace disappears into sturdy, sensible blue. "Did everything-"

"Everything went fine. Keep an eye out for a package from me. I sent it to your work address, since…"

"Right. Thank you." He exhales a shaky breath two months in the making. "Good. That's good to hear."

"You know how the process works now."

"I do."

"You also know there were other options. The mediator asked – "

"I know that." He glances across the room again, where Meredith is pulling her mussed hair into a ponytail.

"And you said you were sure."

The lawyer sounds like he wants his confirmation to cover his own ass; Derek's been there in the OR, in the consult room, so he can't exactly judge. "I said I was sure, and I am sure. This is how I want to handle it."

"It's very generous of you, especially considering … well. She's a lucky woman, your ex."

Derek looks across the room, where Meredith is toeing back into her scuffed blue sneakers. She flashes him a smile that makes his stomach turn over. _I'm the lucky one._ The words come to his mind unbidden.

"It's fine," he says, simply, into the phone. He doesn't want to talk about this. He wants to put it out of his mind again.

"Okay, then. Sign and send them back. And, Derek-"

"Yes."

"Look, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

"Right," he says impatiently. "Go on."

"Her lawyer asked me to pass on a message."

Meredith is giving him a quizzical look, and he smiles weakly with reassurance. Her pager goes off then and with an apologetic gesture – he's still only half-dressed – she ducks out of the on-call room. He stands up and crosses the room swiftly to lock the door again.

"Derek?" Miles's voice wafts through the phone again.

"Yeah, I heard you."

"Do you want to know what she said?"

It's such a simple yes or no question, except it's not simple at all. He hasn't wanted to know what she has to say, not at all. He's ignored her calls and her messages. Nancy phoned a few weeks ago and told him Addison was pregnant; he had a moment of pure, sheer terror before she gave him enough detail to reassure him the baby wasn't his. A little math supported the conclusion, thank god.

He hasn't had anything to say to her. It's not anger that's keeping him silent, at least he doesn't think it is. The truth is that Addison and Mark both started to recede the moment he drove away from Manhattan. With each westward mile he covered, they grew smaller and smaller until, finally, they disappeared. And he's liked it that way.

He doesn't need to hear Addison's tearful apologies in real time. He knows on some level she's sorry, in the same way anyone is sorry when they've screwed up, or at least when they've been caught. Immersed in his new life, he can afford enough generosity of spirit to recognize that their breathtaking betrayal wasn't specifically calculated to devastate him. Nor is it their fault that it didn't devastate him as much as it probably should have. He's mere collateral damage, to them, and with distance, with a fresh start, with two months as a new person under his belt, he can afford some magnanimity.

She seemed to get it; she stopped bothering him once he got a call from the attorney who used to handle their portfolio, with condolences for the end of the marriage and a recommendation for a divorce lawyer. He seemed to know what happened; Addison must have put him up to it. After that there were two layers between him and his estranged wife: he heard only from his lawyer, and never had much to say in response. _Addison hired companies to handle the sales of the brownstone and the beach house._ Fine. He didn't want anything more than a 50/50 split and to be left alone. _Addison had the remainder of your things sent to storage and she's covering the fees._ Unnecessary, but fine.

Logistics, loose ends, and then nothing, waiting for the paperwork and living his new life three thousand miles away. He's not sure he wants to hear her voice now, even if it's filtered through the voice of his lawyer.

Does he want to hear what she has to say?

"It's short," Miles says, as if he thinks Derek wants more details before he decides. "It's very short."

"Let me guess," Derek says drily then, "… she's sorry."

"You're psychic," Miles responds with a humorless chuckle. "And, uh, then just one more thing. Do you want to hear it?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"She said she wants you to be happy." Miles pauses. "Boy, she has a hell of a way of showing it, huh?"

His blackberry twitches in his palm and he glances at the message. _Sorry I had to run. Maybe I'll need another consult later though…_

A smile spreads across his face.

"Thanks, Miles. You can pass a message back for me, to her lawyer," Derek says. "You can tell her … tell her that I am."

..

He told his lawyer he'd keep an eye out for a mailing, but he doesn't. Not really. There's too much else going on. There's a department to run, there's a rivalry that's starting to border on friendship with Preston Burke, who has arrogance and talent in equally alarming measure, but also seems to know every excellent restaurant in Seattle.

There's Miranda Bailey, fearsome resident who he knows is watching him to make sure he doesn't favor Meredith.

And he doesn't. He doesn't want to; she doesn't need that from him and he doesn't want to stand in the way of her advancing on her own gifts. She already has to defend herself, as Ellis Grey's daughter, and the last thing he wants is to add _Derek Shepherd's girlfriend_ to the list.

 _Derek Shepherd's girlfriend._

He likes the way that sounds.

It's serious, this warning, this concern, and he's conscientious in assuring he doesn't push it. To make sure Bailey sees his good faith, he makes a concerted effort to devote attention to each of her other interns, from the abrasive Yang to the fearful-rabbit O'Malley – who, he can grudgingly admit, has more potential than he originally thought.

That's work. Work is important. It has always been the beating heart of his life.

Here, though. Here there's more.

Here he lives on land instead of inside a building, cooks fish he caught that morning standing in the grass and looking at the lake. And then he shares it with a woman he's still getting to know, who pushed him away when she realized he was her boss but has been steadily letting him back in as he's demonstrated his respect for the hospital hierarchy.

Work matters, but he thinks that maybe other things might matter more, here.

Maybe this is where he was always meant to be.

All in all, it's almost too good to be true. And that's why there hasn't been a moment, yet, to tell Meredith how he ended up in Seattle.

When would he do it?

Not before the package arrives, because even though he isn't looking for it, it arrives. He signs it in triplicate and sends two copies back the next morning at his lawyer's instruction.

"You're mysterious, you know," Meredith tells him that night, laughing into the sweat-dampened skin of his shoulder; she's keeping him young with her boundless energy and impressive flexibility and when he tells her this she laughs and says _you don't need flattery to get everywhere with me._

He still hasn't told her. He hinted at it the first night he met her. _Just hiding my pain,_ he said, smiling ruefully, grateful she didn't ask – then or even now – what that pain was, exactly. Maybe it's because she has her own secrets.

Or maybe he's just gotten sloppy. He's stark naked, patting his wet hair with a towel as he steps out of the shower, and he sees her standing in the trailer's area with an indefinable expression on her face.

"Derek." Her hand is resting on the copy of the separation agreement resting on the small table. "What's this?"

And then he has no choice to tell her.

"I don't think I can imagine a worse betrayal," she says quietly, when they're dressed again and sitting outside on the trailer's porch.

"Yeah." He's looking down at the grass. "He was my best friend since … kindergarten."

"Who knows about … what happened?"

"Just Richard," he says, "he, uh, he's known us since we were interns." It sounds strange to say _us_ and be referring to himself and Addison. It's been so long.

"And he also knows we're…"

"Yeah." Derek nods. "He gets it. Uh, I think he was disappointed at first that we weren't going to work it out, but … he gets it."

He can't read Meredith's expression. "Mer…"

"I'm not surprised," she says finally.

"About Richard?"

She nods.

He's suspected, from various things Richard has said, that he was unfaithful to Adele in the past, but he's not sure why Meredith thought so as well.

"You're still married," she says faintly before he can ask.

"I signed the papers as soon as I got them."

"When did you get them?"

"Yesterday," he admits.

"But you've been in Seattle for months. Why did it take so long?"

"It just … did," he says helplessly. He knows he's digging himself in deeper but he's not sure how to do better.

"It just did," she repeats.

"I'm sorry." He rubs a hand through his still-damp hair. "I should have told you. I … the story doesn't make me look very good."

"It's not a story, Derek. It's the truth."

"You know what I mean."

" _You_ don't look bad, Derek. They do."

He shrugs. However you look at it, it's a failure.

"Okay. Well, I want to tell you something now."

He nods.

"I know that Richard probably encouraged you to work it out with your … wife because _his_ wife forgave him for cheating."

"You know…"

"He cheated on his wife for years. It was a serious affair and they were both going to leave their spouses, but then she did and he didn't. He stayed with Adele."

"How do you –"

"She was my mother," Meredith explains quietly.

"Your –" He stops, considers this. He has so many questions, but now doesn't seem to be the time. " _Oh_ ," he says finally.

"So no," Meredith continues, "I'm not judging you for having a cheating wife. Do you judge me for having a cheating mother?"

"No. But that's different. My marriage failed; you were a child, you didn't do anything wrong. You weren't responsible for her choices."

"You didn't do anything wrong, either. You weren't responsible for their choices." She pauses. "Were you a terrible husband?"

He considers the question. "What's a terrible husband?"

"Did you hit her? Did you … hide gambling debts, sleep with her friends … I don't know, come home drunk and trash the house?"

"No," he says immediately. "And no, no, and no."

She nods, not looking surprised.

"I was a little absent," he acknowledges. "Not that that excuses sleeping with my best friend."

She doesn't say anything.

"Meredith. I should have said something, and I was planning to, once I sent back the papers."

"Once you-"

"I did," he says quickly, "I got three copies and kept one, I've sent the others back. It's over. It was over the moment they told me – or, if I'm being honest, before that. I haven't spoken to either of them since. I wanted a clean break. I left, came out here."

"She's not trying to get you back," Meredith says uncertainly.

"No. Absolutely not. Not that it would matter if she tried, because I'm not interested, but – she seems to be … still with him."

"With your best friend."

Derek nods.

She leans back. "No wonder you moved out here."

"Yeah." He looks down.

"But you're not divorced yet," she says. "I don't judge you for her cheating on you, but, uh, I sort of do have to judge you for not telling me you were _married,_ Derek."

"We're not married. We're separated," he cuts in swiftly. "I signed the papers. We're separated."

"Like a trial separation?"

"No, not at all," he says immediately. "It's a legal agreement and it will become a finalized divorce."

She's still looking at him, confused, and he knows he has to explain.

"New York doesn't have no-fault divorce. The closest is a legal separation agreement, which means that, um, a year after we sign, the divorce goes through automatically."

"A year."

"A year." He winces slightly. "It's not ideal. I know."

"Why do it this way?"

"I wanted it to be … amicable," he admits. He hates how it makes him sound like a patsy. He wants her to understand. "Easy, I mean. I didn't want to drag it out. It was over, it was irrevocably over, and doing it this way made the most sense to me. It just … took some time to draw up the papers, deal with the properties…" His voice trails off.

"So you could have filed," she says tentatively, "made her an adulterer on the record, but you didn't. You're waiting a year so it's basically no-fault even though she _is_ at fault. Even though she cheated on you."

He nods. "You think I'm an idiot," he suggests.

"No." She shakes her head. "I think you're a good person. Better than I'd be. Better than you need to be."

"Is that … a good thing?"

"It means I wasn't wrong about you."

He finds himself smiling. "So I'm not in the doghouse."

At the look on her face his stomach tightens. _It means I wasn't wrong about you._ Past tense. Is she … summarizing their relationship? Is she ending it?

"Meredith…" He wonders if he sounds as terrified as he feels.

"You're married," she says, "you're _married_ and you didn't tell me."

"I thought you understood that –"

"I do. I do understand it. But you're married."

"I'm legally separated."

"You weren't when we met. You weren't until … yesterday?"

He nods weakly. "I had just arrived in Seattle." He tries not to sound desperate. "It took time to draw up the agreement. But I haven't seen or spoken to … her since I left New York."

"You could have told me two months ago, Derek. But I guess I understand why you didn't," she concedes.

He doesn't dare to hope too much. "So this means…"

Her pager goes off then. She checks it. "Bailey. I have to go."

"Meredith –"

"I need some space," she says quietly. "I need a little space. Okay?"

"Okay," he whispers, staring at the blank wood of the door long after it closes behind her.

He's three thousand miles away from Mark and Addison. He can't let them ruin everything he's built here.

But he realizes, as the rest of the day unfolds slowly and painfully without a word from Meredith, that he has no choice in the matter.

If he wasn't devastated when his marriage blew up, he might just be now. And the implications of that only make him feel worse. _Damn it._

…

At first he thinks he's imagined the knock. The second time, he opens the door.

"Meredith."

He blinks into the darkness outside the trailer. It's drizzling out and he's been nursing a single scotch, trying not to obsess over whether he's ruined everything. He wasn't expecting her tonight. She wanted space, he gave her space.

Even if he didn't want to. Even if space from her is the last thing he wants.

"You, uh, you want to come in?"

She's looking at him intently with those pale cat's eyes. She doesn't say yes, but she doesn't say no either.

Carefully, not knowing what he'll do if she refuses, he extends a hand across the threshold toward her. She hesitates for a moment, then takes it.

Relief courses through him as she steps into the trailer.

She glances at the drink in his hand. "I have tequila," he offers, and she smiles.

"I need my wits about me," she says, and he hopes that doesn't mean _I'm driving home tonight, I don't want to sleep here, I don't want you._

She looks tired. She looks beautiful, but she looks tired; he recognizes it in the stretched look of the skin around her eyes, the slight slumping of her shoulders.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," she tells him. "Derek…"

"I'm sorry," he says before she can speak. "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner, Meredith. I really am."

Now he's tired, too.

"I know you are." She pauses. "It's … okay."

"It is?"

"It is. You were so secretive, you know? I figured you had to have a dark underbelly."

"You've seen my underbelly."

She laughs in spite of herself, then sets her face into serious lines. "Derek…"

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "It's serious. I know."

"Seriously."

"Seriously serious." He pauses. "I really am sorry."

"I know. Stop apologizing." She tucks rain-wavy hair behind her ears. "I'm sorry that happened to you," she says quietly.

He can see in her eyes she means it. "Sorry enough to forgive me?"

When she hesitates his throat tightens. He was half-joking, hasn't been able to entertain the thought of her actually saying _no_.

She doesn't say no. She doesn't say yes, either. She says: "I have something to tell you."

"You're married too?" His voice cracks a little with genuine fear, because she looks serious and he's too frightened of the possibilities to want to know why.

"Derek."

"I'm sorry." He is, truly, and he steps forward to frame her chilled face with his hands. "Tell me."

She's still hesitating; he reads anxiety in her eyes and realizes it's not about him.

"Meredith," he says gently. "You can tell me anything."

She exhales sharply.

"After what I told you," he amends, "I think you should know that's true."

Slowly, she nods, and he releases her face, tucking more damp locks of hair behind her ears.

"It's my mother," she says quietly. "She's … sick."

"Sick," he's confused. Meredith never talks about her mother, but he knows she's been at the Mayo Clinic for at least the last year. "Is she still at Mayo?"

"No. She was never at Mayo." Meredith draws a deep breath. "She's here in Seattle. In a … facility. She has Alzheimer's."

He's stunned. "Meredith … I'm so sorry," he says huskily. "I had no idea."

"You couldn't have had an idea. I didn't tell you. I haven't told anyone, she asked me not to."

So she's been dealing with this all on her own, the weight of it resting on her narrow shoulders alone. And now he's added to her burden with the tangled remains of his own past. He brushes aside his guilt to focus on the woman in front of him.

"You've been seeing her?"

She nods, reading into his question. "She, uh, she'll recognize me … once in a while."

Wordlessly, he holds out his arms and she steps into them. She feels so small against him, not in the efficient-hummingbird way she buzzes around the hospital, giving and taking orders with seemingly inexhaustible energy. Now she feels little and limp, and protectiveness surges through him.

"It's okay," she repeats as if she's trying to convince herself too. She draws back to look at him.

"I'm just exhausted," she says. "When you told me you were married … and then the doctor at the place called me later that night because there was a problem with my mother … and Burke yelled at me in the OR, and ... _Don't_ ," she adds firmly, holding up one small hand, "I'm telling you that as my boyfriend, not my boss, and my boyfriend doesn't work with Burke. I'm an intern, I'm going to get yelled at. So don't."

"Okay, I won't."

"Okay. I mean, I'm just telling you this because I'm _exhausted_. My mother is exhausting. My job is exhausting. _Secrets_ are exhausting. Yours … mine … everyone's. Secrets are exhausting," she repeats, "so let's not have them anymore."

There's hope reflected in her shimmering eyes and he nods, slowly, daring to hope himself.

"You're right. Let's not have them anymore."

"I think I'm falling in love with you," he blurts before he can stop himself.

 _Taking that "no secrets" thing literally, Shepherd?_

"Derek …." There are tears in her eyes. "Don't," she warns him.

"You said no more secrets," he protests faintly.

"I know, but that's not – but don't – you only said it because I was sad."

"No, I said it because I'm falling in love with you."

"You just said it again!"

"You asked me," he protests, then pauses. "You don't want to hear it," he proposes gently. "You're not ready."

"No, it's not that."

"I can try to … fall out," he offers hesitantly. "You know, until it's … more convenient."

"Fall out," she repeats.

"If you don't want me to fall in."

"You can fall out?"

"If I can fall in, I guess I can fall out."

"Really?"

"No." He smiles at her expression. "I can't. I'm too far in, Meredith. I'm in it. I'm sunk."

For a moment she doesn't move, and then an impish expression crosses her features, no more tears in her eyes. "Good," she says, "because actually … I don't want you to fall out."

"Good," he repeats, "because actually … I don't want to fall out."

He's not sure who's leading and who's following but they fall together onto the bed, limbs entangling, and they don't stop until _falling out_ is an impossibility, and when they're gasping for breath and waiting for the energy to speak she manages first.

"Tell me again,"she says softly, while his fingers trill down the damp skin covering her spine and he doesn't have to ask what she means.

"I think I'm falling in love with you,"he says, and this time she replies with just one word:

"Good."

 _Good._

Truthfully … he couldn't agree more. It's good.

No, it's really, _really_ good.

…

 _The end. (Well, actually, the beginning.) I've always been curious about what it would have been like for the story to unfold without Addison's famous entrance. To me, Derek choosing a separation agreement instead of a fault divorce makes sense; it's a version of his choosing to try to reconcile with Addison – his desire to be a good guy, sometimes in the face of logic, and it also corresponds to his desire to get closure and distance in the easiest and least involved way possible. I can also see the other argument, that when it came time for them to divorce on the show in S3, he signed without a second glance. But that was different, I think, since it came after that long and painful reconciliation attempt. I'd love to know your thoughts._

 _I hope you enjoyed! Next time, back to the real time storyline. Thank you for reading and please review!_


	16. about today

**A/N:** Thanks for your response to the flashback chapter! For putting up with my self-indulgent flashbacks, here's another chapter in real time _fast._ Just so you know, this one gets right into the action with a lot of things happening. Derek and Meredith are going to swap narratives quickly and often, but I know you'll be able to follow along and I hope you'll see why I constructed the chapter this way. Time to pick up the pace...

* * *

 _about today  
..._

* * *

Even though Derek was the one who orchestrated this meeting with Mark and Vivian in MCH's cafeteria, he's grateful when Meredith's entrance signals the end of their time together. Truthfully, the persistent sadness floating off of Mark and his daughter is starting to get to him. It's not their fault, of course it's not their fault, but it's hard, even Zola's natural sunshine not enough to blot it out.

What he needs is Meredith … and now she's here.

"Mommy!" Zola jumps into her arms and Meredith pulls out a chair to join them, holding her daughter on her lap. She exchanges pleasantries with Mark and Vivian, who turns her face to her father and ignores her.

"She's tired," Mark says apologetically, toying with some of the long, tangled strands of Vivian's hair as she leans against him. He checks his watch. "Amy should be here soon to get her."

"Are you sticking around?" Derek regrets the question when he sees Mark's eyes drift toward Vivian.

"Addison, uh, she has some tests," he says carefully, not needing to add that he wants to be there for them.

Derek nods. And then his phone and Mark's go off at the same time.

 _Get away from whoever you're with and call me ASAP._

Derek frowns. Amy has sent cryptic texts before, but this one is extreme even for her.

Then another buzz: _Just do it, hurry!_

"I'll be right back." He excuses himself quickly and makes his way into the relative quiet of the hallway.

"This better be good," he's starting to say when she cuts him off.

"Derek – I need you."

…

Everything after that happens very fast. _You can't tell anyone,_ that's what Amy says, _not Mark, not Mom or Liz or Kathleen or Nancy. You can tell Meredith,_ she amended, _but not in front of any of the others._

Tell them _what,_ he hisses into the phone, since Amy won't tell him anything either, but the desperation in her voice is easy to read.

Derek walks back to the cafeteria table in a daze to see an obviously anxious Mark.

"Sorry … it was about a patient," he says at Meredith's quizzical expression, hating to lie to her. Mark is distracted anyway, and he starts talking before Derek can ask.

"Amy had a work emergency," he says blankly. He looks torn and Derek realizes why.

He's just about to offer to watch Vivian so Mark can go be with Addison when he remembers that Amy has just ordered him into a cab with no further instruction than _get here as fast as you can._ He glances helplessly at Meredith, who seems to pick up on what he's thinking.

"We can watch her," she offers tentatively.

Mark looks up with some hope in his eyes. "Yeah? Not if it's too much trouble…"

Vivian seems to realize what's being discussed and shifts anxiously.

"Not at all. She and Zola can play together." Meredith sounds confident; Derek is grateful. He's obviously not the only one who sees how badly Mark wants to be with Addison.

"What do you think, Vivian?" Meredith smiles at her. "You want to have a playdate with Zola?"

Vivian's little head swivels back and forth between Zola and Meredith. Then she turns to her father. "You too?"

"No, baby, I need to stay here with Mommy. But I'll see you really soon. Right after."

Vivian looks torn. "But why can't Amy come?"

"Amy has to work, Viv."

Vivian's thumb is hovering near her mouth. "Okay," she whispers.

"That's my girl." Mark lifts her up and holds her tightly. "You be good for Meredith, okay? Listen to what she says and be nice to Zola. Remember, she's little."

"I'm not little!" Zola protests loudly, making the adults laugh.

"I'm sorry, Zola," Mark says solemnly. "You're right, you're not little. I just meant you're littl _er_ than Viv."

Zola seems to accept this.

…

"Mer." He takes her aside as discreetly as he can while they pack up. "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Both of them, though. Two at once."

"Derek … we're going to have two kids of our own in a few months," she reminds him.

"I know, but…" There's no tactful way to say _but the new baby won't be a troubled five-year-old._

They've already said goodbye and he's sliding into a quickly hailed cab before he realizes he never mentioned Vivian's sleep disturbances to Meredith. He considers texting, but they're hours from anything close to bedtime, there's no way this will come up. He's sure of it.

 _Mostly sure, anyway._

…

 _Mostly sure, anyway._ That's not what she said to Derek when he asked if she was sure about baby-sitting Vivian; she said _yes, I'm sure,_ but how different are the two statements, anyway?

The point is, it felt right, so she volunteered, and Zola bounced excitedly in her arms, happy for a playdate with the older girl she already seems to consider a new friend. Vivian has kept her distance from Meredith so far, walking at least a foot away from her, but she hasn't protested, or said much at all. When they get outside she has a moment of concern – will Vivian let her hold her hand? They need to cross a busy street. But then Zola solves the problem.

Meredith watches her daughter hold out one of her little hands to Vivian and she takes it without complaint. Then Meredith takes Zola's other hand and, just like that, they're walking in a human chain down the sidewalk.

 _That wasn't too bad._

Hand in hand, they make it to their makeshift home.

Vivian looks around in the entryway and finally speaks. "Is this your apartment?"

"It is now. Just while we're visiting New York." Meredith smiles at her.

"Oh."

"Mommy…" Zola tugs on her hand. "Snack?"

"Sure, Zozo." Meredith turns to the other little girl. "How about you, Vivian, are you hungry?"

No answer.

Meredith thinks of something. "Hey, do you like to be called Vivian, or Viv?"

She shrugs.

Meredith tries again: "What do you think, do you want a snack … Viv?"

Another shrug, but Vivian doesn't object to the nickname.

 _Progress? Maybe._

"Vivi," Zola calls happily from the open kitchen doorway, apparently with none of her mother's hesitation around familiar nicknames, "come and see my toys!"

Vivian glances at Meredith. "Go ahead," she encourages her, "I'll bring you guys a snack in a minute."

She watches the little girl flip-flop her way out of the kitchen and into the living room toward Zola.

 _So far, so good._

…

 _So far, so good._ They're cruising along, the driver hardly even grumbling much about driving to Brooklyn. He smiles a little bit, remembering how huffy Addison would get when she was questioned about her destination. Life in Manhattan, taxi politics and all, seems so long ago.

He hasn't spent much time in Brooklyn, but this is one address he knows. Why Amy wants – no, _needs_ – him to go there … that's another story.

He forces himself to stay calm, or as calm as he can on a lurching cab ride to an uncertain fate. He can do this. _Everything's going to be fine._

…

 _Everything's going to be fine._

Two kids under her supervision, one of whom doesn't seem to like her much? She can handle it. She'll fuel them with a snack, entertain them … it will be fine. Alone in the kitchen, Meredith slices a green apple – then rethinks it and slices a sweeter one too, in case Vivian's tastes don't run quite as tart as Zola's.

She pauses before scooping a little mound of peanut butter onto the plate. Mark would have told her if Viv had any allergies, right? Meredith has seen laundry lists of food specs at daycare – even pinned to children's clothing – so it seems likely there's no issue here. She fills two sippy cups with milk, figuring she can use the excuse with Viv that she doesn't want them to spill on the floor.

"Here you go," she says as she walks into the living room … which is empty.

That's odd. They were just there, playing with blocks. She sets the snacks down on the low coffee table. "Girls?"

No answer. Starting to feel concerned, she calls out both their names.

Nothing.

Zola loves hide and seek, but daycare has thankfully impressed upon her that it's a game requiring awareness from both sides. Still, Viv is older so if she suggested it, maybe …

"Zola? Vivian? Are you hiding?"

Her heart speeds up. Her back was turned for – thirty seconds? A minute? She jogs the perimeter of the apartment, which is a hell of a lot bigger than she realized now that she's trying to locate two small girls.

"Zola? Viv? Where did you go?"

They're not in either bathroom. Or bedroom. Meredith flings open every closet door, pressing a hand to her belly as panic surges through her. The front door – thank _god_ the front door is still locked.

Except it's not chained.

Did she put the chain on? She normally would, wouldn't she? Not at home, but here, in the city. Except her routine was off. She was juggling two little girls instead of one, she could have left it open.

She's made three – no, four – panicked and unsuccessful circuits around the apartment, her chest tightening with each one, before she suddenly realizes the one place she hasn't checked, and can think of only one word in response.

 _Shit._

…

 _Shit._ "You can slow down a little," Derek mutters as the cab accelerates through a yellow light and he's practically thrown forward through the plexiglass barrier.

The cab driver seems utterly unbothered. "You're lucky with traffic, man."

Derek nods distractedly; he doesn't feel like making conversation with the driver. Their route has been unusually clear, it's true; what he recalls from living in New York is a crushing morning rush, barely any relief, a midday crunch, and perhaps a tiny break before the evening rush. In the middle of the night he remembers speeding up the FDR Drive, fresh off a shift at Bellevue, the city spread out like a carpet and hardly any cars in his way, the river sparkling to his right while the skyline climbed on the left.

Now it's hot endless summer, the middle of the day.

"Where you going again? Smith and what?"

"Uh…" he checks his phone again and updates the driver.

He should reach out to Meredith. She seemed confident about taking care of both girls, so he doesn't want to seem like he's checking up on her, and he's not. Just supporting her.

 _How's it going?_ He sends the text and then leans back against the seat again, wishing he could be in their rented apartment with his wife and daughter instead of here in the cab.

At least he'll be back with Meredith and Zola soon.

 _Thank god._

…

 _Thank god._ The words hit her hard when she sees them, relief surging through her so intensely it's almost painful.

There, where she never thought to look – outside the dusty smoked-glass windows that lead outside, she sees both girls sitting cross-legged on the cracked-tile floor of the terrace.

Fifteen floors up.

Behind bars far too widely separated for her taste. Which is why they didn't give the terrace a second thought once they'd slid the bolt shut; it was far too high for Zola to reach. Nauseated, Meredith kicks herself for never telling Zola not to go out there. It simply hadn't come up.

Her heart thudding against her chest, she forces herself to remain calm so she doesn't startle them, her brain entertaining unwilling visions of one or both of them tumbling down to –

 _Stop it, they're fine, they're sitting down._

Through the smoked glass, Vivian with her long messy hair and pointed little face looks almost frightening, otherworldly, and sitting far too close to sweet little Zola.

She forces a deep breath as blackness singes her vision.

Careful not to startle them, she raps very gently on the terrace door.

Neither one looks up.

Slowly, she wraps a sweaty palm around the metal handle and pushes the door open.

"Mommy!" Zola beams at her. "Come play with us!" She puts one pudgy little hand flat on the tiles to stand up.

"Wait!" Meredith reaches both hands out. "Come inside, girls."

"Stay here," Zola protests.

"I said no." Meredith lifts her easily and deposits her inside the apartment. "Don't move, Zo," she tells her firmly and Zola's eyes widen.

Meredith reaches a hand out to the older girl. "Vivian … come inside, please."

Vivian doesn't move.

"Vivian. Time to come inside," she says more firmly, then pauses. There's a distinct, silent _or_ in her command, but … _or what?_ She's not sure. _Or I'll tell your father?_ She's not sure threatening to tattle on a five-year-old is the best way to establish her authority.

"Zola's inside now, and so am I," she says calmly. "Party's in here, Viv, so come join us."

Vivian responds to her lighter tone, standing up without touching the ground and sidestepping Meredith's outstretched hand as if she has a communicable disease.

Relieved, Meredith closes and bolts the terrace door, then squats low enough to be eye to eye with Vivian. "Okay, listen … no more playing out there," she says firmly. "You can play in the living room or anywhere else in the apartment, but not out there."

"Why not? It's just a terrace." Vivian looks dismissive.

"Because Zola is too little to play safely out there without a grownup. And I didn't know you were going out there, and you scared me," Meredith scolds her. "I couldn't find you or Zola and you didn't answer when I called you."

"We didn't hear you."

"I know, honey, the door is very thick out there so you can't hear me, which is another reason why I don't want you going out there."

"That's dumb."

Vivian's tone is stubborn, her little chin raised, and Meredith finds herself growing frustrated.

"Vivian. You can't take Zola somewhere without telling me, and _you_ can't go somewhere without telling me either. Not when I'm watching you. Do you understand me?"

Vivian stares at her for a moment, then turns and runs away, her flip flops slapping the floor – thankfully at least she stays _inside_ the apartment this time. Meredith hears a door slam.

Okay, so this must be what it will be like to have a teenager.

 _Great._

…

 _Great._ He's overheated in the poorly ventilated back of the cab with no idea where he's headed.

Well. He doesn't recognize the winding streets, dotted with brownstones and other low-rise residences, cafes and shops with jaunty signs decorating the corners.

But he does know where they're going. Derek doesn't know a lot of addresses in Brooklyn but he knew this one on sight. It's Nancy's townhouse in Cobble Hill. He hasn't been in years, but the intersection hasn't changed, and he's received a Christmas card from the address every year since they moved in.

Of course, figuring out where he's going just brings up more questions.

Like, for example, why is _Amy_ summoning him to Nancy's house? Since when has Amy even been welcome at Nancy's house? And does Nancy know she's there?

He pauses to take small comfort in the fact that he knows Nancy is with their mother right now so it can't be that she and Amy finally fought to the death and he's getting a call to hide the body.

…

"Mommy, where did Vivi go?"

"She's … resting," Meredith improvises, smiling as reassuringly as she can at Zola, after yet another round of find-the-kid. This round has been laced with more guilt and less fear, since she knows Viv is somewhere inside the apartment.

That … and she's already regretting letting her frustration show in front of Vivian. She didn't yell at her, not really. Did she? She knows she didn't meant to. But with the fear of not being able to find either girl, and seeing Zola unsupervised so close to the wide-set spokes terrace railings, behind her, she has time to mull … and regret.

There's something preternaturally mature about Vivian, some combination of being tall for her age, her solemnity and her husky voice. Meredith doesn't think she's ever seen her smile. She reminds herself with a pang of sympathy that Vivian is actually a not-even-six-year-old child whose pregnant mother might be dying, whose life has been one tragic circumstance after another for the past … two years? And then more guilt surges through her.

"Vivian? …Viv?"

She jiggles the knob to the master bedroom. The door's locked. _Great._

"Vivian? Viv, honey, answer me please."

Nothing.

For a moment of panic she tries to remember if there's a terrace off the master bedroom, and prays there isn't. She and Derek wouldn't have noticed it, there's no draw for either of them in sitting outside in boiling-humid smog. City kid Viv would notice, though, and …

She forces herself to take a calming breath, tries to remember what it was like to be five and six years old and feel like the grownups around her weren't listening. Vivian didn't even want to come here, but she did, and then Meredith treated her attempt to show Zola something cool like a major transgression.

 _Nice job handling two kids at once._

She takes a deep breath. Zola is watching her from across the living room, the apple slices she's holding in each hand not detracting from her serious expression. With one last look at the locked bedroom door, Meredith goes to her daughter and kneels in front of her.

"Hey, Zozo. Listen. Viv isn't feeling good and Mommy needs to talk to her. Can you sit in here while I do that? I'll put on a show for you," she offers, fiddling with the iPad. Zola considers this for a moment, then nods, dumping out a bucket of colorful lightweight blocks while Meredith finds one of the cheerful, music-based programs Zola likes to watch and sets it up so she can see it while she plays. It's not her best parenting moment, it's sheer bribery is what it is, but she's unabashedly desperate at this point. "I'll be right over there if you need me," she assures Zola, dropping a kiss on her head and pointing toward the locked master bedroom door.

Zola is too entranced with the triple lure of her snack, show, and blocks to respond.

Meredith returns to the master bedroom, determining to be creative. Vivian's father is counting on her to keep his daughter safe. How would she feel to have Zola upset and alone with someone she obviously didn't trust?

"Hey … Vivian," she calls through the door. "Listen, I'm not upset with you. And neither is Zola. We want to play with you, if you come out…"

Nothing.

She tries again: "If you don't want to come out yet, maybe you could just let me know how you're doing. Or just tell me you're okay."

Silence.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk. I understand. But I really do need to know that you're okay in there."

More silence.

"So let's figure out a way for you to tell me, even if you don't want to talk, okay?"

There are no audible words, but Meredith is almost positive she hears footsteps, as if Vivian is approaching the door.

"You don't have to talk," she repeats calmly, "but if you just knock on the door, I'll know you're okay, and then you can have some quiet time if that's what you want. And I won't bother you."

And more silence.

 _Nice try, Grey._ Meredith hovers outside the door. So much for her child psychology skills.

And then she hears a faint little rapping on the door and exhales a long breath of relief.

"Thank you," she says sincerely through the door.

So she's okay.

"I'm not going to bother you," she repeats, "but I'll stay here in case you feel like talking." She pauses, then thinks of a way to let Viv keep her dignity. "Knock on the door again if you want me to go away," she suggests daringly, knowing that Vivian will be able to skip the knock but tell herself she's just ignoring Meredith if necessary.

Silence.

Okay. So she's staying.

Glancing into the living room to make sure Zola is still occupied, she slides down to sit next to the door, drawing her knees up.

 _Now what?_

…

 _Now what?_ He's just managed to resign himself to Amy's cryptically urgent request when his phone rings, announcing another sister needs him. He'd like to ignore it, but he's afraid to after Amy's warning. _Don't let any of them know._

"Kathleen?" He answers reluctantly, wishing he could angle the air-conditioning vents toward the back seat. "What's wrong, is Mom okay?"

He listens to his sister's reassurances, then follows with some of his own.

"I'll be back at the hospital later. I'm … doing a consult for a friend."

He crosses his fingers she won't ask where the consult is. Nancy would, Lizzie might, but Kathleen won't. She's a shrink at heart, the closest the Shepherds have ever produced to a sister with some concept of boundaries.

"You saw Mark?" He presses his fingers to his temples. "Where?" Why does it seem like everything is blowing up at once? Amy with a mystery emergency, Meredith juggling Mark and Addison's daughter, and now Mark and Addison's carefully guarded secret unrolling in front of the Shepherd sisters? Of course his role in keeping that secret is likely to come out soon.

He's been divorced from his family as much as he divorced his ex-wife, and he hasn't felt it as strongly yet as he feels it now. He's had three thousand miles between his sister's secrets, the back and forth and push and pull of the three oldest with their tight closeness and passionate arguments and then adding Amy to the mix, Amy who's been oil and water with Nancy for years …

He leans back against the stiff leather seat and sighs. At least things are still going well for Meredith with Vivian and Zola, as far as he knows. But as for him, and his sisters? _What a mess._

…

 _What a mess._

Meredith and Vivian are still in standoff on either side of the door. She's been calling Viv's name softly every few minutes, just in case the little girl changes her mind and wants to talk.

"Viv?"

No dice, this time or any of the others. Meredith winces as she tries not to think about every inappropriate thing in that room that Vivian has unsupervised access to now. There's the Tylenol she took yesterday – it has a child cap, at least. Manicure scissors, which she used to cut a thread and left on a dresser too high for Zola to reach but well in Vivian's grip. And then there's their prescription pads.

Their prescription pads – okay, now she's being ridiculous. Surely five-year-olds, even precocious ones, don't write their own prescriptions.

 _Prescription pads._

Suddenly, she has an idea.

She pushes herself to her feet and heads for the kitchen, where she fiddles through the packed diaper bag until she finds the little scratch pad book she carries everywhere in case she needs to write something down. She tears out a couple of pages, then grabs the thinnest pen she can find.

When she sits down again outside her locked bedroom door she hears a little creak in the wood, like Vivian's leaning against the door on the other side. Did she notice Meredith left? She kicks herself for not warning her before she did.

"Hey, Viv," she calls softly. "I'm back. I was just in the other room for a minute."

Silence.

"I was thinking, since you don't want to talk, maybe you might want to write instead, or draw."

Slowly, she pushes one of the pieces of paper and the pen about halfway underneath the bottom of the door, where there's a good sized gap between wood and carpet, and then withdraws her hand and waits.

For a long moment, nothing happens.

And then both paper and pen disappear under the door. _Yes._

"Viv … you want to draw a picture?"

 _Now I do sound like a child psychologist. If Cris could see me now…_

There are scratching sounds from the other side of the door. Meredith envisions the paper being torn up and flung in her face – which wouldn't be too bad because it would involve opening the door, at least – but instead, when a minute has passed,

She's drawn a scowling face with angry eyebrows and a big frown. It won't take a psych degree to analyze that, at least.

"You're feeling bad," Meredith proposes.

Nothing.

"You know, sometimes when I feel bad I like to be distracted. Read a book, or listen to some music … or even dance … "

Vivian doesn't respond.

"If you open the door, maybe we can find something to do together that will make you feel better. All three of us can find something fun to do."

There's another creak suggesting Vivian is sitting against the door once more, but she doesn't speak.

"Okay. If you want to stay in there for a little bit, that's fine, but maybe you could just unlock the door, and I won't open it if you don't want me to."

No luck, but then again it was a long shot. It feels important to maintain connection, so Meredith turns over the unhappy-face picture and passes it halfway under the door like she did the last time, blank side up, waiting for it to disappear. It does, faster this time.

There's silence while Vivian is, presumably, looking at the blank paper.

"Maybe I can read to you," Meredith offers. "What do you think? You can stay in there, and I'll read from right here."

She holds her breath, hearing some scratches on the paper, wondering if Vivian has learned to print any of the four-letter words she'd probably like to hurl at Meredith right now.

The paper slides back out from under the door and Meredith catches the briefest of glimpses of tiny fingers when it does.

She picks up the paper. _OK,_ it says, in big shaky letters.

Meredith exhales a sigh of relief. Okay, then.

 _Now we're getting somewhere. Finally._

…

 _Finally._ They're here. Derek shoves crumpled bills into the little plastic slot, snags his change and is barely out of the cab when he sees his sister's head poking out of the front door and then her hand, gesturing him urgently towards her.

He jogs up the front steps. "Amy, what the hell?"

"Shut up," she says urgently, her eyes bright, and then adds a genuinely grateful-sounding, "thank you for coming," which is the most _Amy_ combination of mismatched phrases he can imagine.

"You'd better tell me what's going on," he warns. "Amy…"

"Just come with me." She seizes his wrist and he lets her tow him through the foyer, down the hall …

"Oh, my god." Derek stares.

Amy turns to him. " _Now_ do you see why I needed you to come alone?"

* * *

 _To be continued. Whew. Okay. Three different things going on here: Meredith trying to get through to Viv, Amy's cryptical emergency call to Derek, and now Kathleen all up in Mark's business. Make sense? Hang on because a lot is going to happen in the next few chapters. I hope you enjoyed and I really hope you'll review, not just because I'm a shameless review hound, but because your opinions matter to me. That ... and I'm shameless, and reviewing makes me write faster, I swear. Thank you, all of you, for reading!_


	17. suffer little children

**_A/N:_ You are all wonderful ** and your reviews mean a lot. Thank you so much. I hope you will keep them coming, because even my speedy fingers need incentive. Sorry for the cliff last time, but I didn't make you wait too long, did I, for this bulky chapter.

* * *

 _suffer little children_  
...

* * *

Barely two feet into Nancy's hallway, Derek freezes with shock.

Reeking of alcohol, pale and sweating, slumped on the hallway floor with vomit down the front of his shirt, is Nancy's middle son Jesse.

 _Jesse._

But he's only a little boy in a little league uniform, isn't he?

Except he's not, any more than Derek lives in Manhattan and is married to Addison. By now Jesse must be …

"Fifteen," Amy supplies, and there's no need for her to add color to the single word. They both remember perfectly well – even without the guilt darkening his sister's pale eyes – what Amy was doing at fifteen.

…

Meredith has concluded two things about motherhood, so far: first, it hasn't been what she expected, and second … well, she never really had any idea what to expect in the first place.

With the gift of raising Zola, she has some more insight. Sometimes motherhood is sleepy morning cuddles on sun-dappled sheets, nuzzling her daughter's silky cheeks, and sometimes motherhood is waking up in the middle of the night to a screaming toddler whose diaper has failed to perform its most crucial task.

What she also knows now – and she knows it isn't very much – is that motherhood can simultaneously swell your heart and rip it out, and that even its most mundane predictability can shock her. There's not much dignity to motherhood, maybe ... but there's so much more.

Like sitting outside the locked door to her own temporary bedroom with a well-used Dr. Seuss book spread over her lap, reading words that her younger, single self would not have spoken unless some very powerful mushrooms were involved.

 _"Bump! Bump! Bump! Did you ever ride a Wump?"_ She pauses automatically at this part, where Zola always likes to shout, _no!_

Selecting a book felt heavy, weighty, like she needed to find the perfect words to soothe the tumult of Vivian's situation. But her hand fell on Zola's favorite instead, and she took a chance.

Zola can't hear her reading, Meredith concludes, or she'd be jumping in right about now. Vivian doesn't say anything from behind the locked door, and Meredith continues reading.

" _We have a Wump with just one hump._ "

She looks fondly at the familiar illustrations. Zola loves this book. And sure enough, after another few lines, her daughter picks up on the rhythm of the narration and bounds over.

"Mommy! That's _One Fish Two Fish_!" Then she looks around, confused. "Where'd Vivi go?"

Meredith gestures at the closed bedroom door. "She's in there, sweetie."

"She's in there?" Zola points too. "How come?"

"That's where she feels like being right now," Meredith says simply, aware Vivian can hear everything they're saying, and Zola accepts this.

"Can I read too?"

"Sure." Meredith moves the book to allow Zola to climb into her lap, then opens it again so they can both look at the pictures. "That's the Wump!" Zola exclaims, pointing.

"That's right, ZoZo. You want to help me read?"

Zola nods enthusiastically.

"Hey, Viv," Meredith calls softly through the door. "Zola's here with us too now, and we're going to read to you together. This is one of Zo's favorite books so she knows some of the words already."

No answer, but if she's very quiet Meredith can hear breathing from behind the door.

 _Breathing. The pretty much bare minimum. World champion babysitter right here?_

But ... it's not nothing, not really, because it means Viv has chosen to sit close to the door again. Baby steps? Maybe? The thought of a sad little girl curled up against a locked door inches away from her and yet completely closed off remains discomfiting.

Meredith holds Zola a little closer in response, breathing in the comfort of her sweet baby smell, and starts reading again. "Go back," Zola commands, pointing to where she wants her mother to start again, and she complies, preparing to let Zola finish each rhyme herself as she loves to do.

" _But we know a man called…"_ Meredith pauses to allow her daughter time to fill in the end.

" _Mr. Gump!"_ Zola provides the words excitedly and Meredith smiles.

" _Mr. Gump has a seven-hump Wump,"_ Meredith reads.

Zola giggles at that line, like she always does, and gestures for her mother to continue.

" _So if you like to go…"_

" _Bump! Bump!"_ Zola shrieks with delight.

Meredith continues: " _Just jump on the hump of …"_

"… _the Wump of Gump_."

Meredith looks up, startled.

That wasn't Zola's little voice supplying the end of the quote. It was Vivian's deeper voice, and it came from the other side of the locked bedroom door. Meredith forces herself not to react too excitedly for fear of scaring Vivian off.

"This book has fun rhymes, don't you think?" she says casually instead of calling attention to Viv's participation.

Zola responds instead: "Yeah!"

There's a scratching sound near the doorknob. Meredith doesn't react, just keeps reading, crossing her fingers it was a breakthrough and not a fluke.

" _These yellow pets are called the…"_

" _Zeds,"_ reply two voices, one from outside the door and one from inside.

" _They have one hair upon their…_ "

" _Heads!"_ Zola shrieks the word with delight, almost – but not quite – drowning out Viv's gravelly whisper.

" _Their hair grows fast … so fast, they say_ ," Meredith pauses for breath and then she has to shift quickly when the bedroom door finally creaks open, revealing a small, mussed girl.

" _They need a haircut every day,"_ Viv murmurs, finishing the sentence Meredith just read. Her voice sounds a little rough with disuse, but she got the line in one.

Meredith smiles at Vivian in what she hopes is a reassuring way, noting with some concern that the child looks a little dazed, messy pieces of her long, half undone ponytail tangled around her flushed face – the AC floor unit was off in the bedroom, she realizes guiltily, and Viv's little shirt looks damp with sweat. She should make her drink water, she should – but no, she's talking now, she's actually left the locked room, which means … something.

That she's okay.

"More!" Zola claps her hands with delight, beaming at Vivian, who is still hovering in the doorway and gesturing for her to join them. Viv looks uncertainly at Meredith. With as little pressure as she can muster, Meredith pats the carpet next to her and Vivian slowly sinks to her knees beside them.

"Keep going," Viv says huskily, one of her little hands resting on the open book.

Two pages later, Meredith feels a bit of pressure shift as Viv moves a hair closer. Tentatively, she extends her arm and after waiting long enough that her muscles tremble a little, Vivian scoots a few inches in and leans just barely – almost imperceptibly – against her side. Slowly, lightly, Meredith closes her arm down around her, relieved and not a little surprised that Vivian allows it.

"Read, Mommy." Zola taps the book and Meredith – after one more moment of grateful, exhaled relief – does as her daughter asked and continues reading the comfortingly familiar rhymes to both girls.

…

"Jesse." Derek kneels at his nephew's side, patting the side of his unresponsive face automatically. "Jess. It's Derek. Can you hear me?"

Amy is watching him patiently, and Derek tries to get a grip on this disturbing scene. While he used to see Nancy's children a couple of times a month, and on every holiday, he's embarrassed to realize now that he hasn't seen Jesse since Clara's disastrous wedding party. He would have been around twelve then, blending in with the pre-teen and teenaged cousins, and Derek realizes he has no memory of Jesse specifically from that weekend. Which may be part of the problem. Sandwiched between Nancy's first, fussed-over baby and the first, athletically-gifted son on one end and unexpected twins on the other, Jesse's always sort of … blended.

Nancy, the middle child herself, used to joke she would never have a fifth baby so there wouldn't _be_ a middle child. She stopped joking when she found out she was carrying twins.

This frightening version of Jesse isn't anything like what he remembers, other than the Shepherd dark hair and freckles, which are standing out dark against a frighteningly white pallor.

Derek looks up at his sister, her calm stance confusing him. "Amy, he needs to be checked out –"

"I checked him out already. Who do you think made him throw up?" She grimaces.

"You didn't get an EMT here? He may need to be admitted."

"No. He's on his parents' insurance. Nancy will find out."

Derek presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. "There are ways around that."

She shakes her head.

"Look, Amy, this isn't you borrowing Nancy's sweater without permission. This is her son, fifteen and passed out and – " His voice breaks off, he's frustrated. "This is serious."

"You don't think I know it's serious? I called you, didn't I? I let Mark down when he needed me even though he –" Now it's her turn to stop talking. "Derek, I _know_ it's serious. Do something for me," she says abruptly. "Look at his nose."

Nothing good ever came from that instruction, but he complies. Jesse's pug nose comes from Steve's side of the family, it's easy to see the cracked red skin and dried blood in his nostrils. Derek winces.

"I found this," Amy says, pulling an amber prescription bottle from her pocket. "Steve didn't. But … he probably didn't know where to look."

Derek takes the plastic bottle from her. "Ritalin. You think he's been snorting it?"

Amy nods.

"So he has a legit prescription, but he's abusing-" He stops when he sees Amy shaking her head.

"Look at the prescribing doctor."

Derek reads the name: _Nancy Shepherd-Byrne, M.D._

"Nancy would never write a script for one of her own kids," Amy says. " _Especially_ for a Schedule II stimulant like Ritalin."

"It's not illegal to do that," Derek offers hesitantly.

"No, but it might be soon, and anyway it's _frowned upon_ already by the medical board at least _,_ and who's a bigger stickler for rules than Nancy Shepherd?"

"True." He nods, with a sinking feeling. "You think he wrote his own script."

"Chip off the old block," Amy says, trying to smile as if she's joking but there's real pain in her voice.

"Amy … this isn't your fault."

Amy laughs mirthlessly. "Want to make a bet whether Nancy would agree with you?"

…

Vivian is noticeably calmer after the story is finished. Meredith is able to convince her to drink most of a juice box – Zola sips from a matching one of her own, which seems to help – wipes her face and neck with a cool washcloth and helps her change into a clean, dry shirt from the bag Mark packed for her.

The juice seems to help her revive, and before long Viv is kneeling on the living room floor with Zola, helping her build a tower. They're sweet together; Meredith notices that Viv hangs back a little to let Zola place the blocks, that she seems aware that Zola is smaller, not as fast and paces herself thoughtfully with her younger friend.

Meredith is watching, not interfering with their play, until her phone lights up with a call from Derek. She walks a few feet away so as not to disturb the girls, keeping them in her sight line just in case.

"Derek, where are you?"

"Cutting right to the chase. I like it." The banter is pure Derek, but his tone of exhaustion, with a little fear, worries her. "How's life with two kids? Three kids," he corrects himself, "but one of them is still pretty easy, I know."

"It's fine."

"Vivian's okay?"

 _Not even close._ "She's fine. She's playing nicely with Zola."

"Yeah? They're sharing and everything?"

"Yes." It sounds like he's breathing heavily, and she frowns. "Derek, I know you can't … just, are you okay?"

"I'm okay," he says. "Are you?"

"Of course I'm okay," she says impatiently, "are you going to tell me _anything_ about what you're doing?"

She hears him pause at her tone, and considers apologizing.

"I will tell you everything," he says after a moment, sounding as patient as she did impatient, "I will, Mer, I just can't yet."

"Okay." She takes a steadying breath. "But you're with Amy."

"I'm with Amy. But only you know that. I'm … she … had an emergency," he says finally.

"I figured. Is _Amy_ okay?"

"Yes." There's a pause and Meredith hears a scuffling sound down the line.

"Derek, are you sure you're-"

"I'm sorry to do this, but I have to go. Everything's fine, I promise. I'll be back as soon as I can. Kiss Zo for me."

…

"Tell me what you know," Derek instructs Amy, like she's a responding EMT. " _Amy,_ " he says more sharply.

She grimaces, but complies. "Steve called me."

Nancy's husband, the father of the teenager slumped across the hall carpet. "Today, you mean?"

"No, a while back – look, can you just let me talk?"

"Fine," he says impatiently, still scanning his nephew's supine body, fingers hovering automatically over his skin to find his pulse. "Go on."

She takes a deep breath. "Steve called me a while back. He was worried about Jesse, you know, he noticed some stuff and Nancy didn't agree with him and, well, I guess he thought I'd, you know, have some insight. But, um, Nancy found out and … she lost her shit."

"Of course she did." Derek doesn't have to strain much to imagine that.

"Yeah. She was pissed. Even for Nancy." Amy shakes her head, and adopts a higher voice to repeat her sister's words: " _Stay away from my family, haven't you done enough,_ you know, classic Nancy. _Blah, blah, restraining order_ , you get the gist."

"But you and Steve didn't stop talking," Derek guesses, and Amy nods.

Some of Nancy's hostility starts coalescing in Derek's mind. Nancy has always been possessive – not easy in a family of five kids, but maybe necessary in a family of five kids, and Nancy is after all the middle child. Steve has been nothing but brotherly to Amy as far as Derek knows, and Steve has also known her since she was a young teenager, but Derek knows Nancy's reaction to Steve and Amy continuing to strategize about Nancy's son – should she find out – might very well make Clara's wedding look like a relaxing evening at the beach.

"Okay. So what happened today?"

"Today …" She takes a deep breath. "Today Jesse called me."

Derek's eyes widen.

She nods. "Steve was in surgery and Jess was freaking out and ... "

"And you came over here," he prompts. He looks around, thinking of something. It's high summer, no school. "Wait. Where are Sean and the twins?"

"Sean is in New Hampshire playing lacrosse, and the twins are at tennis camp."

Oh, good.

"Day camp," Amy clarifies, and his heart sinks. So their time is limited to do … whatever it is Amy's planning to do.

Amy cocks her head. "What did you tell Mark?"

"That I had a consult," Derek says. "Does it matter?"

"He needed me to watch Viv." Her tone is heavy with guilt. "He needed to be with Addie."

"Vivian is fine. She's with Meredith. And Mark is with Addison."

"Viv's with Meredith?" She pauses, her face scrunched with confusion. " _Really_?"

He nods distractedly. "Amy, we need to-"

"I can't believe Viv went with her. Wow, Meredith must be great with kids."

" _Amy._ " He sharpens his tone to get her attention. "What's the plan here? You want to leave Jesse on the floor in a pile of vomit and-" he stops talking, as another acrid odor hits his nostrils, "other things, for Nancy to find?"

"Of course not! But … I can't move him." Amy looks helpless. "He's too heavy. I may be just as brilliant as a guy and I definitely smell better than one, or I did before I got here, and I tried to clean him up after but…"

"It's okay," he says quickly; apparently Amy still rambles when she's nervous combined with a generous helping of Shepherd ego.

Jesse's had a growth spurt, Derek realizes, as he tries to find the least awkward way to lift his nephew. He's bony but tall now, his shoulders starting to broaden, despite his slack baby face he's clearly bigger than Amy and outweighs her, she wouldn't have been able to lift him alone but Derek lifts him easily, and for a moment he just stands there with his nephew in his arms. Some part of him wants to remember cradling the blue-wrapped bundle in the hospital but though he's certain he saw all of his sister's children shortly after birth – Addison even delivered a few of them, as did Nancy – he has no memory of Jesse in particular; it could have Sean, or one of Kathleen or Lizzie's boys.

They clean him up together in the bathroom down the hall; Amy's already started, based on the damp washcloths he saw on the floor. Jesse mumbles something under the lukewarm spray of the shower and then goes silent again.

Derek turns to Amy, concerned. "Are you _sure_ we don't need to –"

"I have some experience in the area," Amy says grimly. "I'm sure."

They prop him up in a soft chair visible from the hallway so they can keep an eye on him.

"He's breathing. He's … okay, look, we need to monitor him." Derek starts coordinating their plans, which he assumes is why Amy called him in the first place. "We need to figure out what to do about the twins. You can deal with Steve. I assume you want to keep Nancy away?"

Amy nods, and Derek continues: "And, uh, I guess we need to talk to Jesse when he wakes up, because – at some point Nancy _will_ need to be involved."

Amy looks as thrilled about that possibility as he would expect.

"Nancy almost killed me back at the hospital and all I did was allude to it. _Barely_."

Derek thinks back.

"Steve wants to get him help," Amy says softly. "He _needs_ help."

"And Nancy?"

"Nancy's in denial. Nancy thinks Jess is still twelve years old sneaking one sip of beer at a family barbecue."

"And you're in the middle," Derek says. "How did that happen?"

"How does it ever happen?" Amy rolls her eyes. "Look, Derek, you know how much Nancy hates me."

He's not sure how to respond. "I need your help. I can't get arrested again. I'm too pretty for jail."

Derek rolls his eyes. Now _that_ sounds like Amy.

"Please, Derek. You can't say anything to her. Or Kath because she'll tell her, or Lizzie either, or Mom. Or Mark. Or-"

"I won't say anything," he interrupts her, sighing to once again be wrapped up in the tangled telephone wires of the extended Shepherd family.

Because this _is_ his family. It was always this way. They have always been all-consuming. One crisis would bleed into another until the first was an afterthought. His mother's surgery? It's already paled in comparison to the chaos in front of him now. And there was always something … more than one thing, usually. Addison liked that, he recalls, coming from such a cold and withholding family. She liked the crowding and the gossip and even the infighting; it came with a closeness he knows she hadn't experienced before.

But Derek? Derek always craved space.

Space he never really found until Seattle.

…

Zola announces she's ready for naptime without words, leaving her blocks on the carpet and curling up with her head against Meredith like a little cat. Not quite wanting her out of her sight yet, Meredith sets her daughter up on the low couch in the living room she knows she can climb on and off of, covering her with a blanket.

So now it's just the two of them, and Meredith leads Vivian toward the other side of the large living room, even though Zo could probably nap through an earthquake. Viv glances back at the sleeping Zola. "I don't want to nap," she says warily.

"You don't have to nap, Viv. Zola's littler than you are, so she'll be tired if she doesn't have a nap."

Vivian looks like she's not sure she believes her. Meredith is mentally running through her arsenal of child-friendly entertainment – okay, it's been a long day already, she's definitely leaning toward the iPad. She's about to ask Viv what shows she likes to watch when the little girl starts talking again.

"When's my dad coming to get me?"

"I'm not sure, sweetie, but soon." Meredith kneels down next to her. "Why don't we-"

"When?"

"As soon as he can," Meredith assures her. "He's with your mom right now."

"Getting tests. I know. My mom is always getting tests."

It's the most Meredith has heard Vivian speak, at least spontaneously – not counting recitations of Dr. Seuss. She's not sure what to say, so she just nods. She notices Vivian studying her and looks down to see that in her kneeling position, her lightweight top has pulled tight across her midsection, making the bump where their son is growing more obvious than it normally is.

Meredith sees her pregnancy register in the little girl's expression.

"Are you going to have a baby?"

Meredith nods.

"When?"

"Not for a while. He won't be here until February."

Vivian considers this.

"That's Zola's baby brother in there?"

Meredith nods, a little nervous where this is leading.

"I have a baby brother too but he's in heaven," Vivian says, which is more or less what Meredith was expecting … except that she's surprised to hear the child of two surgeons describe death that way. It reminds her, briefly, that she has no idea how she would have handled it in their situation.

And she hopes she never has to find out.

"He was here first before he went to heaven," Viv clarifies, perhaps reading the surprise in Meredith's face, which she tries to school. "I saw him."

"You, um, you saw your brother?"

"Yeah. He was really tiny." Vivian cups two hands in front of her the way adult might hold an impossibly small 19-week-old and then her arms move down like she's cradling a bundle of blankets, the way her younger self might have held him. "He died," she adds.

Meredith nods, fighting discomfort with her story; she's seen parents bring siblings in to say goodbye to stillborn babies and understands the desire, but at nineteen weeks of development that must have been … challenging, to say the least. Still, Vivian seems unbothered by the memory.

"I had a baby sister too. But I didn't see her, she was too little to hold," Vivian continues matter-of-factly. "She's with my brother."

Meredith isn't sure how to respond to this information. It's Viv's normal, she doesn't want to make the little girl self-conscious, and if she feels more comfortable around Meredith now after their rocky start today, that can only be a good thing.

Right?

"Viv," Meredith starts hesitantly, thinking now might be a good time to distract her.

Vivian just moves a little closer and points to Meredith's midsection. "Can I touch?"

Meredith hesitates for a moment. Viv's curiosity is natural but with the specter of her family's tragedies, plus Addison's pregnancy, she feels somewhat uncomfortable. Then she looks into the curious little freckled face and can't say no.

"Sure."

Vivian puts out her little hand, Meredith noting that she automatically cups toward the bottom of the bump like she's done this before.

"Does he kick you?"

"Sometimes."

Viv pauses as if she's waiting for a kick. "I don't feel anything."

"He's probably sleeping now."

"Oh. I hope he's not dead," Vivian says casually, and Meredith has to swallow hard.

"I hope so too," is all Meredith can think to say in response. Vivian is still staring pensively at Meredith's midsection. Tentatively, she reaches out a hand toward Vivian's messy ponytail and, when the little girl doesn't protest, smooths down some of her hair.

The extra top Mark packed for Viv is sleeveless; half turned away, kneeling in profile, the sharp prominence of her clavicle and scapulae are obvious. Probably just a growth spurt. Her skinniness, that somewhat unnerving lack of baby softness, shouldn't matter. She's still scarcely more than a baby, Meredith reminds herself.

Vivian turns back to look fully at her. "My mom is pregnant," she says, her voice betraying no emotion.

So Viv does know that; Meredith had been wondering.

In response to Vivian's announcement Meredith just nods noncommittally, deciding to let Viv take the lead. The little girl ducks away from her hand now and Meredith, taking the hint, stops touching her.

"Yeah. The baby makes her sick." Viv pauses. "Does your baby make you sick too?"

"I used to throw up in the mornings sometimes," Meredith says carefully, "but I don't anymore."

"'cause of the baby?"

Meredith nods.

"But you didn't have to go to the hospital?"

"No."

"Oh." Vivian considers this. "I think my mom is a different kind of sick."

Meredith feels her stomach clench. No one prepared her for this discussion.

"My dad is mad," Vivian says calmly, without much context, though Meredith can infer the unsettling connection.

"Not at you," she responds quickly, automatically, but Vivian doesn't seem to hear her reassurance.

"He's mad at the baby."

Some of the haunted look in Vivian's eyes makes even more sense now. Meredith shifts uncomfortably, not sure she wants to know how much of her family's impossible situation Vivian understands.

"Viv, honey," she starts tentatively, feeling this conversation may have moved above her ability to handle.

"He is too mad," Vivian insists as if Meredith has contradicted her. She deepens her little-girl voice in imitation. " _You really expect me to love a baby that's going to kill you?"_

Chills run down Meredith's spine. "I, uh, don't know if he meant to say that, honey."

"I heard him say it to my mom," Viv responds in her regular voice, then deepens it again. " _That's fucking insane, Addison!_ "

Meredith flinches internally at the language, at the harsh tone Vivian's little voice has taken on in recollection. The argument obviously made an impression on her. Meredith thinks about conversations she should never have overheard when she was Viv's age.

Some of them she's never forgotten, either.

"You were … in the room too?" she asks tentatively.

"No. Outside. They didn't see me." Vivian is playing with the messy ends of her long ponytail. "They were yelling."

"Viv … sweetie …" Meredith tries to remember what _Sesame Street_ and the like say about things like this. Probably that adult fights aren't their kids' fault. Which is true, except harder to argue when said adults were ostensibly fighting _about_ a kid. She tries anyway: "Um, sometimes grownups-"

"Can I have a snack?" Vivian interrupts before she can finish.

"…of course you can." Meredith stands up and offers the little girl her hand.

But in the kitchen, Vivian proceeds to eschew pretty much everything Meredith offers her, cementing her hypothesis that she was just trying to end an uncomfortable conversation. Not that she can blame her. Remembering that Viv requested gumballs that day in the corner store – maybe she has a sweet tooth? – Meredith digs out some toddler fruit snacks from the cupboard.

Vivian accepts little torn-open packet and then sits at the table to play with its contents , stretching one between her fingers; eventually she puts a different one in her mouth and then wrinkles her nose.

"You don't like it? Do you want something else?" Meredith is trying not to hover, but it would be nice to see Viv eat something.

"No, thank you." Vivian stacks three little red gummies on top of each other on the kitchen table, then looks up at Meredith. "Is my dad coming soon?"

"Yeah. He is." Meredith smiles at her.

Zola pads into the kitchen before they can entertain further discussion, having woken up from her nap by herself. She looks a little sleepy still, her pink top creased where she was curled up on the couch. She doesn't seem to want cuddles, though; she's already holding an empty pink flowered teacup in each hand and thrusts them upon her mother and Vivian.

Meredith notes with appreciation that Viv drains her pink plastic cup of imaginary tea with far more enthusiasm than she's seen her show for any actual food or drink.

"Yum," Viv tells an eagerly waiting Zola in her husky little voice, "that was really good tea." Zola beams in response and then clambers onto her mother's lap.

To her surprise, Meredith feels tears stinging the backs of her eyes. She's holding her daughter close and thinking of two little babies who never had a chance.

 _You would have been a great big sister, Viv._

…

With Jesse sleeping in relative peace where they can keep an eye on him, the siblings turn to the property side of damage control. Derek starts by leaning against the open door jamb that leads to the hallway, assessing what needs to be done. Amy's already started to clean – how like her to start without a plan – and he notices with a slight pang that Nancy uses the same can of powdered cleanser his mother used to use. It was ninety-nine cents a can at Howard's Grocer in town but ninety- _five_ cents at the Shop 'n' Sell they built out on the turnpike. His mother would complain frequently about another chain store ruining things for small businesses, like you'd expect from his father's wife and then his father's widow, but she kept a running list of price differences in her head and you'd better believe she remembered if one of the girls neglected to find the cheapest price on a grocery run.

Derek turns the can over in his hand. _Housekeeper's Friend,_ that's what it's called. The label looks a bit different but it's still red and yellow with a line drawing of a full skirted, smiling housewife in high heels with a head of mid-century curls. The cartoon woman is simultaneously nothing like his sturdy, no-nonsense mother and nothing like his willowy doctor sister either.

But Nancy's still buying the same cleanser. In a townhouse that must be worth a few million dollars, to clean furniture the prices of which he knows would make his mother faint, in brownstone Brooklyn where he knows harsh chemicals are eschewed in favor of things like artisanal lavender essence … Nancy is still using that same red and yellow can of simple powdered cleanser from their shared childhood.

He swallows hard. He's thinking of pointing it out to Amy, who's on her knees now dumping white powder onto a blue sponge, but then something occurs to him.

"Amy. When you said –" he repeats her words – ' _blah blah restraining order,_ ' you meant that that Nancy threatened you with a restraining order, right? Not that … she actually filed for one?"

Amy shakes another sprinkle of Housekeeper's Friend onto the expensive-looking rug in the hallway and starts scrubbing. "She actually filed for one, I got served and everything. You know Nancy, she crosses her Ts and dots her-"

" _Amy_ ," he interrupts sharply. "You realize that means you can't be here? That you being in this house is a crime?"

"Yeah. I know." His younger sister looks up at him, swiping a sweaty forearm across her forehead and leaving a streak of powdered cleanser behind. "That's kind of the other reason I called you."

* * *

 _To be continued. As always. Please review and let me know what you think?_

 _Okay, rambles ahead: t_ _his was a long chapter, but I liked it, and I hope you did too. I can't believe it's already Chapter 17, but hopefully some things are starting to come together, and they will continue to._

 _I hope you won't judge Mark too harshly for what Viv told Meredith. Like any kid, she's remembering what stuck in her mind, but they're in an incredibly stressful situation, and more light will be shed on that in coming chapters._

 _I don't have any claim to Dr. Seuss, but I sure do love him._

 _Finally, other housekeeping matters you should only read if you care about biblical Greek and/or fetal development: this chapter's title is a Tears for Fears song. I know the original, biblical quote isn't about suffering but it's often misinterpreted as such based on old translations, and I liked the ambiguity. And if you are interested in seeing what it looks like when a baby is delivered at 19 weeks, I suggest a sad article from a couple of years ago (available online) in which a family shares photographs of the baby they lost at 19 weeks, including their other children holding the baby._

 _If you read this entire long rambling author's note, you are amazing. Period._


	18. hold onto yourself

**A/N:** Okay, you guys are beautiful wonderful readers and amazing reviewers and you deserve another chapter today. So here you go. More later...

* * *

 _hold onto yourself  
..._

* * *

"A restraining order."

Derek shakes his head, sitting back on his heels. Nancy could be vindictive, he knows this, and he's certainly seen her rage at Amy, but he's also seen the softer Nancy, the one who was welcoming to Meredith and fussed over Zola, the one who used to defend Addison to their mother and insist the not-quite-as-coordinated cousins be included in family flag football.

They're hard to reconcile.

"Doesn't that mean you shouldn't have been in the same room at the hospital?"

Amy shrugs. "Technically, yeah, I guess, but even Nancy isn't going to call the cops when Mom has cancer."

It's blunt. They've been using euphemisms and talking around it, mostly. _The procedure. Excellent prognosis._ And she's truly doing well … but still.

"But she doesn't know you've been –"

"Talking to Steve? Talking to Jesse? God, no. She already has enough reasons to hate me." Amy makes a face. "Pretty sure she thinks that seeing me at Clara's wedding is what turned Jesse into an addict."

The word makes Derek's stomach turn. Little Jesse, an addict?

Then he remembers who's kneeling across from him, scrubbing bodily fluids out of a carpet. _Little Amy_.

He swallows hard.

"Anyway." Amy shrugs. "I get it. I mean, Nancy would rather think that than acknowledge there's a mile-wide addiction streak in the family."

Derek sits back on his heels, confused.

Amy stares at him. "Why do you think Mom's been so forgiving? It comes from her side."

"It does?"

Amy is looking at him like he's stupid; it's something his sisters frequently do and few others so he's having to get used to it again on this east coast trip.

"Derek … you didn't think Uncle Glen really fell asleep at the wheel because he was working third shift, do you?"

"Wasn't there a coroner's report?"

"Small town." Amy shrugs. "The ME didn't want to upset Granddad Maloney … who, by the way, was-"

"Don't tell me." Derek holds up a hand. "I believe you."

Before she can tell him anything else, Jesse stirs from his sleeping position.

…

"I'll be right back."

Meredith stands up, still wearing the pink plastic crown Zola placed on her head, carrying both her phone and her flowered teacup far enough away from the girls to have some privacy.

"You hear from Derek?" Mark asks as soon as they've exchanged greetings and Meredith has assured him that Vivian is fine.

Meredith blinks, trying to remember what Derek told Mark, or rather what Derek told Meredith he told Mark. This kind of family telephone, game of conflicting whispers, is so far beyond what she's experienced that she's not quite sure how to handle it. All she's sure of is that it's … confusing, and none too pleasant.

"He's not back yet," she says finally, which is totally uninformative if you break it down but Mark seems to accept it.

"How's, uh," but she doesn't want to say _Addison_ , worried about attracting Viv's attention. Mark gets her meaning, but then it's his turn to seem not to know what to say and Meredith regrets the question.

Mark is all apologies for how long his day is turning out to be, and she reassures him as best she can that it's fine, of course she can keep watching Vivian. Internally, her own reassurances are a little bleaker: _after this morning, how much worse can it get?_

…

Jesse stretches awake like he's been catnapping, seemingly undisturbed to find his aunt and uncle on their knees scrubbing the hall carpet. He seems like the old easygoing Jess, middle-child-doesn't-cause-problems. He's starving, he says, and he wolfs down a grilled cheese Amy hastily prepares on Nancy's complicated-looking stainless range, gulps a horrid-colored sports drink Derek hopes they won't have to see in reverse.

Color is coming back to his cheeks. He's recovering fast enough that this clearly wasn't a fluke. Which means that while his recovery is good to see – the obvious habit this type of behavior has become … isn't.

He thanks Amy for coming, multiple times, thanks Derek for helping her. And then he props his elbows up on the kitchen island and his eyes dart nervously around the room.

"I, uh, I know I overdid it but it's just this one time. It's summer," he adds, like that explains it.

Amy is folding a dishtowel with surgical precision.

"You're feeling better?"

"Yeah. Tons." Jesse looks around the kitchen again. "The thing is, I just need my medication." When they don't respond, he smiles in an unnerving way – he has his father's smile, broad and genuine, except right now it just looks toothy.

"I have ADD," he continues, "did you know that? Mom doesn't like to talk about it."

It's either true or it's an excellent cover. Nancy doesn't advertise what she perceives as her children's flaws.

"Oh," Amy says pleasantly, "I think I saw your meds earlier."

Jesse's face is calm and neutral. "Yeah? You remember where? I can grab 'em, you don't have to."

"No, it's fine."

Amy gestures at Derek with her eyes and he follows her out of the room.

She plucks the amber bottle out of her back pocket when they have privacy. "We should let him take it."

"What?" Derek is stunned. "You want to give him Ritalin to snort?"

"No. Of course not. He won't snort it, he'll want us to think it's legit. He'll swallow the pills in front of us. And we don't want him to know we think it's not legit. It will keep him calmer, he's going to freak out before too long if he's used to a steady dose in his system. We need to try to keep him okay until they figure out where to take him. And so he doesn't get so desperate he goes out to try to score."

Derek just stares at her for a moment, the import of her words hitting him hard.

"He called me for a reason," Amy says simply.

Back in the kitchen, a grateful Jesse throws a couple of them into his mouth. "Thanks, Aunt Amy. Look, you guys don't have to stick around." He's fingering the bottle, tossing it from hand to hand. "I mean, I appreciate it, really. I'm just still tired, I think I'm gonna sleep it off now."

"That sounds good." Amy smiles at him. "We'll stick around a little longer, just in case you need us."

He shrugs. "Sure, whatever. Thanks again, Aunt Amy, you're the best. Uncle Derek, good to see you, man." He sticks out his hand to shake and it's the oversized paw of a teenager who hasn't grown into his height yet.

When he's sleeping in the den, blanket on his legs, one arm thrown over his face, Derek turns to Amy.

"He seems … okay."

"Of course he does. Or did. He wanted us to leave."

"He's already sleeping again."

"That's best." Amy tilts her head. "Now … I stay with him until Steve gets out of surgery. And then we figure out a facility, where to take him, what to do – figure out this prescription thing. And do it all before Nancy gets back from the city."

Derek notes her use of _I._

"You don't need me to stay?"

"Nah. He'll sleep it off, it's fine."

"What about the twins?"

"Steve will get home before they do. I saw Nancy's calendar." Amy shrugs. Nancy's always kept a color-coded calendar, since she was a teenager. A mother of five now, there are a lot more colors.

Derek decides to wait just to make sure Jesse's sleeping deeply enough not to need any more help Amy can't provide. He checks his watch. He can get back in time to help Meredith, if she's still watching Vivian, or just spend time with Meredith and Zola before he checks in on his mother. His blackberry has been lighting up all morning, as usual, Liz with cheerful updates and Kathleen's with a combination of questions and relatively cordial pressure to come and see their mother when he's done working.

But Jesse's light snoring suggests things are going to be okay. He takes the opportunity to call Meredith.

"How's the Brady Bunch?"

He can hear her smiling down the line. "I'll take the Brady Bunch over Lord of the Flies. But it's fine. They're playing together."

"Mark's been gone a while, huh?"

"Yeah, I think he got held up but he couldn't give me too much detail." Derek hears Meredith pause. "Speaking of not giving too much detail…"

"I know. I owe you a story." He takes a deep breath.

He hears a rustling at the front door, a jangling of keys. Steve, back from the hospital.

"Meredith. I am so sorry-"

"Go," she says quickly. "It's okay."

Thank god Steve is back. Derek heads through the foyer to pull the door open, but Steve seems to have beaten him to it.

Except it's not Steve.

It's two girls with dark ponytails, matching tennis rackets slung over their shoulders and matching expressions of confusion on their faces as they stare at him. In the years since he's moved away he's apparently lost the ability to tell them apart, so he's not sure which one speaks first:

" _Uncle Derek?_ " She sounds shocked to see him. "What are you doing here?"

…

It's hot and sticky outside, still, that persistent humidity that seems to make all the blocks surrounding their apartment building too fetid to bear. She takes both girls out anyway, because one small apartment can't contain them all day. They find a frozen yogurt shop not too far, and when Mark texts it's the perfect time for a meetup.

Meredith doesn't warn Vivian at Mark's request, in case he's delayed – she assumes Viv would be anxious, and it makes sense. Both girls have selected yogurt flavors for their aesthetic value, each cup pinker than the next.

Vivian sees Mark before Meredith does; she abandons her yogurt and runs to her father, who crouches down for a hug and then stands up with Viv still in his arms to make his way over to Meredith and Zola.

"Thank you so much, really, for watching her," he says to Meredith again. "I hope she hasn't been too much trouble." He pulls out a chair and sits down with Vivian on his lap. She reaches for her cup of yogurt.

"No, of course not."

Mark turns slightly and Meredith catches a glimpse of Viv's anxious little face.

"Everything was fine," Meredith assures him. "Really. Vivian is welcome to hang out with us anytime."

Mark looks heartbreakingly relieved. He turns to his daughter. "How's that yogurt? Can Daddy have a taste?"

Viv pierces the little pink and white mountain with her plastic spoon and offers it to him. Mark takes the yogurt in his mouth and then nibbles at Viv's hand – just like Derek does with Zola, and for some reason it makes Meredith feel sad.

Meanwhile, Vivian either likes frozen yogurt or is distracted by Mark's presence, because she's gone through about a quarter of it without being reminded. Meredith notices that when Zola mourns the end of the little chunks of kiwi she chose for her yogurt, Viv scoops a few out of her own cup to share.

"I'm sorry it's taking so long." He pauses. "There's, uh, there's one other meeting." He seems constrained around Vivian, which makes sense.

She seems to understand enough. "I want to come too," Vivian leans back to see her father.

"Not this time, baby."

Viv's lower lip trembles. "I didn't see Mommy all day."

"You saw her in the morning," Mark reminds her gently, "and you'll see her tomorrow morning, I promise. She's tired tonight."

"It's not fair," Vivian whines, and Meredith sees pain flash across Mark's face.

It really isn't fair.

Mark gives Meredith an apologetic glance, perhaps misinterpreting her sympathy as reluctance. "We've imposed on you so much already, and you've been incredible. It's really fine, I can get one of the nurses to watch-"

"No," Vivian says immediately, tightening her hold on Mark's neck, and Meredith sees his skin turning white under the pressure of her fingers.

"Of course Viv can stay with us. That would be great, then she and Zola will have more time to play." Meredith lifts Zola to her lap; her daughter seems to have picked up on the tension in the air and she cuddles close to Meredith, watching father and daughter with interest.

"If you're sure…"

"Zola would love to have more time to play with Viv," Meredith says, "Right, Zo?"

"We're having a tea party," Zola chatters, then glances at Mark. "But no boys."

"Good, I like that motto." Mark smiles at her, then looks at his daughter, who's loosened her hold on him enough that he can see her face. "Vivi … I really need you to hang out with Zola and Meredith a little longer. I'll come back and get you as soon as I can."

Viv is gnawing on a fingernail; Mark detaches her hand gently from her mouth and she reattaches it to his shirt. "I'll be back really soon, I promise," he tells her. Vivian is still holding onto on when he stands up.

"I should go." Mark looks at his watch with his free hand. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"It's really fine. Viv," Meredith says softly, "why don't we finish up here so we can head back to the apartment for the rest of your tea party? What do you think, Zozo?

Zola responds in the enthusiastic affirmative, wriggling to get back into her own seat, and Vivian allows Mark to set her down on her feet. Viv watches him leave, her thumb hovering close to her mouth, and then Zola wriggles to get down from her mother's lap and pipes up.

"Vivi, come on," she says urgently, reaching for one of Viv's small hands with her significantly smaller one, "we gotta finish."

With one last glance toward the door, Viv takes Zola's hand and lets herself be led back to the table.

…

The twins are back.

Derek winces. They're back a hell of a lot earlier than expected … and before their father.

Sarah – he's pretty sure it's Sarah, she's a smidge taller, is actually holding her racket aloft like a weapon, which would be funny under any other circumstances. Slowly, she lowers it.

The other twin, Joy – looks worried. "Why are you here? Did something happen to Grammy?"

"No, Grammy's fine. She's doing really well. Your mom is with her. You're um, you're home early."

"It's just morning clinic today," Sarah says like it's obvious. She's looking at Derek with some suspicion. "Mom didn't say anyone was coming over." Her eyes skate over Amy, who's joined them in the foyer, and she doesn't say the next part.

 _Pretty sure you haven't been welcome here in a while._

"You haven't been here in ages," Joy says, not sounding particularly annoyed about it, just observational.

"I live in Seattle now. It's far away."

"I know where Seattle is." Sarah frowns.

"Sarah…"

"That's Joy," the one he thought was Joy, but apparently is Sarah, looks annoyed. "We're not identical, you know."

"I know." _Foot in mouth, again._ "Regular sisters look alike too," he offers lamely. "People used to mix up your mom and Aunt Kathy when they were kids."

They girls look disbelieving – it's not strictly true, although in his defense photographs of Kath and Nancy at the same age looked quite a bit alike.

"Why are you here?" Joy asks the question again, and he quickly memorizes the pink piping on her tennis dress so he'll remember which one is which. Sarah's has purple patterns on the skirt. There … all he needed was a little help.

"Actually, girls." He slouches his shoulders a little to get on their level. "We came over because Jess isn't feeling well. He's, um, he's resting in the den, so maybe you could go upstairs to do … get cleaned up or whatever you need to do."

"Why are you cleaning the rug?"

Derek glances at the wet spots on the rug, the strong scent of _Housekeeper's Friend_ and the two recently-abandoned sponges.

"He puked, didn't he," says Joy matter-of-factly.

"He wasn't feeling well."

"We're not babies." Sarah shakes her head.

"I know that, girls-"

"We know the difference between being sick and being drunk," Joy continues, her neutral tone almost chilling.

"Okay," he says in a tone he hopes is calming, trying to defuse the situation – not from experience, right? Even Amy hadn't started experimenting by their age, had she? He scans the twins' faces for a moment. They look healthy and sun-kissed, like girls who've been playing tennis outdoors all summer, but appearances can be deceiving.

"We just want to help your brother," Derek says finally, with no clue whether he's handling this correctly.

Both girls look a little worried now. "Is he in trouble?"

Derek glances at Amy. "We want to try to keep him out of trouble. So we want to stick around until he's feeling better, so we can talk to him."

The girls exchange nervous glances. "Talk to him about what?"

He's confused by their reaction. _I don't know, being wasted at ten a.m.?_

"Uncle Derek … come and see our room," Joy suggests suddenly. "It's upstairs."

"Oh. Well, sure, maybe a little later," Derek says, "I want to talk to Aunt Amy and then check on Jesse, but-"

She cuts him off, the set of her jaw highlighting her resemblance to a young Nancy. "No, Uncle Derek … you should really come upstairs _now_."

* * *

 _To be continued. I'm planning to post the next chapter tomorrow - for some reason this story is humming and I want to take advantage of it. Please share your thoughts because that's the best way to keep me on target!_

 _PS Bear with the temporary MerDerZola separation. With so much going down, they're both pretty busy on their own. They'll be back together soon ... but stay tuned, because a lot is going to happen in the next few chapters._

 _Oh, and review. MERCI. You all rock._


	19. just smoke

**A/N:** You guys are the best, and your reviews and ideas and thoughts are A+. I appreciate it a ton. There's a lot going on in the next few chapters, and then there will be some time to process (or that's the plan now).

* * *

 _just smoke_  
...

* * *

Family is … strange.

That's all Derek can think mere days after he was plunged back into the heart of his semi-estranged one.

It was already going to be awkward keeping vigil at his ill mother's bedside with the sisters who resented his years of absence.

Except his mother is doing beautifully, his sisters are far less annoyed by him and his new life than he expected.

But it's strange, it's more than strange, because here he is, in the rather violently purple bedroom of two twelve-year-olds – at least, he's pretty sure they're twelve, or thirteen perhaps, but after mixing them up he's certainly not going to ask them to confirm – staring into the open drawer of a princess white-and-gold vanity table.

With a lock on it.

A cute pink lock that must have seemed sweet when they bought it. For a diary, maybe.

He's pretty sure whichever parents purchased the little table and saw the sweet little lock on the drawer wasn't envisioning its contents.

"Jesse said if he was ever really sick … we could explain."

Derek blinks, surprised at this. The child of two doctors, apparently Jesse didn't want to leave diagnosis to chance.

Amy is rigid next to him, looking into the drawer. He has a moment of wondering if this is bad for her, if it's bringing back memories she's not prepared to deal with.

This is apparently Jesse's territory, with pills in plastic bags and scattered across the pink-striped drawer liner. He recognized the blue Ritalin tablets he saw downstairs, but there's also baggie of white powder

Derek has no idea what a normal amount would be of … any of this.

He just knows it's not good.

And there, underneath the white powder, is one of Nancy's prescription pads.

Joy, who unlocked the drawer, is shifting from foot to foot as she watches them.

"Why do you have this?" Derek asks.

"He asked us."

"Okay." Derek takes a deep breath. This is way above his pay grade. _Way,_ as sometime uncle who had no idea what he was getting into when he got to the house. "Have you shown any of this to your parents?"

"No," Joy says immediately. "Jesse told us not to."

Derek sees Amy's jaw working tensely, maybe wondering if she had been the middle child instead of the baby whether she would have roped siblings into deceit. Or worse.

"Just to be clear," Amy says quietly, "this isn't … _yours._ "

"No." Sarah wrinkles her nose. "We told you, it's Jess's. And anyway I take asthma medication and that's it. And it's from a real doctor. Not from-"

She stops talking at a sharp look from Joy.

"What is it?" Amy looks back and forth between them.

"Nothing," Joy says. "Forget it."

"Girls," Derek says sharply. "Just tell us."

"Sarah, shut up," Joy says urgently.

"Joy does the thing." Sarah mimics scrawling a signature. "She knows how to do it 'cause we used to write notes from my mom to get out of band-"

"Sarah!" Joy glares, then turns anxious eyes on her aunt and uncle. "Don't tell my mom," she says in a small voice.

Derek stares at the fluffy purple-and-white bed directly across from the vanity until the pattern starts to blur before his eyes. Forging notes from their mother _._ Compared to what Jesse has apparently been up to, a note to get out of band practice seems so innocent it's almost laughable.

Joy looks nervous. "I didn't take the pad. It was Jesse."

"Did he make you do this? Did he hurt you?"

"What? No." Joy looks appalled. "Jesse wouldn't do that."

"He _asked,_ " Sarah clarified. "And … he was crying."

"He said he needed it."

"He knew we didn't get into trouble when we wrote the notes for school."

"You can't tell my mom," Sarah says again, a note of pleading in her voice.

"You won't get into trouble," Amy assures her. For Derek's benefit she murmurs, " _Mom_ will be too busy murdering me to do anything to her little forgers."

"No." Sarah says firmly. "I mean you can't tell her about Jesse."

"Sarah." Derek exchanges a look with Amy. "We don't want to make things harder for Jesse. We want to help him."

"You can't say anything! You said _you_ were going to help him," Joy accuses.

"You _can't_ tell Mom and Dad," Sarah adds.

"Girls … Jesse needs help," Amy says quietly.

"My mom says you'rea drug addict," Joy counters, turning on Amy, her tone and posture both more aggressive now.

"I am," Amy responds calmly.

"You're on drugs?" Sarah's eyes widen. "Now?"

"No. I'm in recovery. I'm not on drugs. I got help. But I _am_ an addict, and I always will be, which means I can recognize it when someone else is an addict. When someone else needs help."

The girls seem to be considering this.

"But you can help him without telling Mom and Dad, right?" Sarah looks from Derek to Amy.

"Sarah, your brother is fifteen." Derek sighs. "Your mom and dad need to know what's going on."

" _No_. We promised Jesse we wouldn't tell."

"He shouldn't have asked you to promise him that. That's the drugs talking, not him."

"You don't even know him!"

"Sarah…"

Sarah has turned on Joy fiercely. "Why did you tell them anything? You're so stupid!"

"Hey!"

But before he can intercede, Joy has shoved her sister, hard, and Sarah is going for her in return when Derek gets between them. "Stop it. Neither of you did anything wrong. Well, until now," he mutters, because he has to grab Joy to keep her from swinging at Sarah.

She rips her arm out of his grasp. "Don't touch me," she snaps.

Derek lifts both hands in surrender. "Okay, I won't, as long as the two of you stop fighting."

"You can't tell us what to do," Sarah glowers and just like that, the twins seem to be a unit once more … against them.

"You're not our dad. You're not anything," Joy scoffs.

"Girls." Derek sighs. "Please."

"We literally haven't seen you in _years_."

"You couldn't even tell us apart," Sarah says scathingly.

"You're like a total stranger and you shouldn't be in _our_ house."

The situation is devolving rapidly.

"Okay, girls. It's okay. Let's all just calm down."

"No!" Joy raises her voice. " _You_ get out."

"Joy, calm down, and-"

"Get _out_ of our house. We didn't invite you and you shouldn't be here."

"We'll call the police," Sarah threatens and too late, Amy freezes with horror and the girls pick up on her reaction.

Later Derek will wonder which sibling telegraphed to the twins their concern about the police; whether he did it or Amy ceases to matter when things quickly start to escalate.

"Girls-"

But in a flash Joy has snatched a pink rubber-encased cell phone from her little white desk – there are flowered stickers on the back of the case, she's still _that_ young, and she brandishes it in Derek and Amy's direction.

"I'm calling the police," Joy threatens. "Get out or I will. For real, I will."

Derek looks from the open drawer of incriminating materials to his sister, who's technically banned from this house, to his niece, who is holding out her pink phone and glaring stubbornly across the room.

 _Now what?_

…

The temporary apartment is as cool and dry as the outside is hot and humid. From the open kitchen where Meredith prepared yet another snack she has a feeling Vivian won't like – cheese and crackers and grapes, this time, which Zola is attempting to re-plate on one of her brightly patterned serving trays – she can see Zola and Viv back on the floor of the living room. They're no worse for the wear from a day that's felt quite long, except for a few colorful frozen yogurt stains, and they're currently sharing a tea party with a large stuffed otter and a fixed-smile baby doll. The fluffy purple boa Zola slung over Viv's skinny shoulders looks a bit out of place on the serious child, but she didn't complain.

Mark checks in on Vivian by phone in low tones suggesting he's still in the hospital.

"Did she settle okay?"

"She's fine," Meredith assures him. "She's playing with Zola." That, and Meredith's pretty sure she just saw Viv eat a grape, though she doesn't mention it to Mark in case it was a fluke.

"Thank god for Zola," Mark says, and Meredith smiles; it's a thought she's had many times herself. "You're a lifesaver," he adds. "Is Derek coming back soon, or…?"

"I'm not sure," Meredith says honestly. She hasn't heard from Derek since he ended their phone call so quickly; whatever he's doing with Amy is shrouded in mystery but she knows they'll catch up eventually.

"You've had them both alone all day?" Mark shakes his head. "Have you guys eaten? No? I'll bring dinner when I come back."

"You don't have to do that." She hasn't planned anything else for dinner, other than _figure it out later._

"There's a good pizza place by the hospital," Mark continues. "Will you eat pizza? You're not one of those girls that only wants salad, right? Because I can get a salad but I was thinking more like… a garnish."

"Pizza sounds fine," Meredith assures him, "and so does garnish."

Mark asks to speak to Vivian and Meredith brings her the phone. The little girl cups her hand around it when she's speaking to her father; even if Meredith tried to listen in she wouldn't be able to. Their brief conversation has scarcely ended when big drops of rain start splattering the grimy windows.

The humid air has been threatening a storm all day; it's finally here.

"Thunder!" Zola stands up to announce it to the room at large.

Then lights actually flicker for a moment.

"They won't go out," Meredith says quickly when Zola looks anxious. "This is a big building with its own generator."

"Once there was a blackout and I wasn't born yet," Viv says abruptly, surprising Meredith who hasn't heard her share any stories other than those surrounding her family's current stressful circumstances. "and the subway went out and my mom was in it and she helped a lady have a baby right on the train."

Meredith blinks. She's heard that story, from Derek. They must have been on the train together. There's something cyclical, symmetrical even, about the threads of time woven up in Addison's daughter telling Meredith's daughter about something their parents experienced together.

Meredith notices that Viv is looking at Zola, who is maintaining a firm grip on her mother's arm. "That was a long time ago," she says in her husky little voice. "Don't worry, Zola."

…

The purple bedroom the twins share seemed large when Derek first stepped into it, with its white shining furniture and memorabilia of childhood and impending teenage battling for control: here a stuffed teddy bear in a Princeton t-shirt, there a bottle of perfume.

Now, with Joy standing feet away from Derek and Amy, trembling with outrage and clutching her pink phone, threatening to call the police … it feels tiny.

Tiny and tense, the rather sickly sweet scent of the sort of cosmetics girls at that age like, some combination of vanilla and flowers, is giving him a headache.

"I'm going to call the police," Joy repeats, "if you don't leave." She glances at her sister. " _Now._ "

"Joy," Derek says quietly. "Please don't do that _._ " Derek reaches toward her and she jerks the phone out of his reach in response.

Derek and Amy exchange a look. And in the moment of silence between brother and sister it's clear they don't have a plan.

Derek hasn't spent much time with his family in the years since he left New York. But he hasn't forgotten that it's those times when they don't have a plan … that things can spin out of control fast.

"Joy, honey." Amy steps forward now, her voice very soft although Derek can hear the edge behind it. "Just put the phone down. It's okay."

"No! You both better get _out_ or else I'll call! I'm calling right now!"

"Joy." Derek takes a slow step toward her as her finger connects with the first digit. "You can't do that, please, just give me the phone and I'll explain. Give me the phone, Joy."

The second digit beeps and Derek, realizing their time has run out, grasps Joy's wrist before she can press another number and pulls her toward him, attempting to pry the phone out of her hand as gently as possible.

And failing.

"You're hurting me," Joy wails – unfairly, he thinks – as she clings to the phone, and then pain explodes through his leg when he realizes Sarah has whacked him around the shins with her tennis racket.

"Leave my sister alone!"

"Derek," Amy's eyes are wide, she's standing between him and a panting Sarah now, trying to block any further blows, "this is _not_ a good plan."

"Just take the phone," he snaps at his sister and while he attempts to restrain Joy with one hand and protect himself from Sarah's tennis racket with the other, Amy pries the pink mobile from their niece's grasp.

Derek releases both girls as soon as the phone is in Amy's custody and instantly regrets letting the situation get so out of control when he sees the expressions on both their faces.

"Girls," he says gently, taking a step toward them, both hands raised in conciliatory fashion. "It's okay. Just let me explain."

They're clearly frightened, eyes wide, backing up away from him in tandem. He realizes he's standing between the girls and the door – and he's not sorry, because it's necessary, but their fear is upsetting nonetheless.

Guiltily, Derek lowers his voice and stops advancing. "Girls. Sarah, Joy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I want my phone back," Joy whimpers. "I want to call my dad."

That alone is enough to make him feel like the worst person in the world. But it just gets worse.

…

The rain is loud, and occasional thunder rumbles through the apartment. Zola abandons the tea party and wants to be held; Meredith decides they need to drown out the sound. She puts on a movie – one of the many children's DVDs that seems just to accumulate when they had a child. With the volume flicked up a few notches more than usual, the sounds of the storm are less scary and more white noise background. Zola sucks sporadically on a sippy cup that seems to be providing comfort, curled up against her mother.

Viv seems somewhat interested in the movie, but is keeping her distance despite invitations from both Meredith and Zola to sit closer. On the other end of the couch, with her legs curled under, she's propped her pointed little chin in one hand and Meredith sees her eyes are drooping.

Their day has been mostly sedentary, which is exhausting in and of itself. She knows it can make kids bored and restless but the weather is horrible and if she's completely honest she doesn't trust Vivian out on the town. What if she gets upset and darts off? Won't hold her hand across the street?

A brief, horrifying vision of having to tell Mark the one healthy member of his family was hurt is enough to make her put on her most chipper summer-camp-counselor voice and suggest a movie.

Viv looks away from the screen, playing with the end of her long, messy ponytail. She examines some strands that look like they might have dipped into her yogurt: altogether, the effect is tangled. Vivian doesn't seem pleased with it; Meredith watches her small fingers untangle the band holding her ponytail.

"Do you want me to help you fix your hair?"

Meredith asked it without really thinking; Viv's stare and refusal to answer – other than curling further in on herself on the couch – suggests Meredith has done something wrong.

Whether it's something she should try to discuss with Vivian, she's not sure. She's hesitant to make things worse, or to disturb what feels like a fragile piece. Almost unconsciously, she's stroking Zola's hair as her daughter rests against her, so carefully styled to keep it healthy and out of her face.

The next time Meredith glances over at Viv she's fallen fully asleep, curled up over one of the oversized cushions. Her lips are slightly parted, messy hair all down her back, but still, she looks sweet in sleep.

Peaceful.

Meredith is relieved. A part of her has been on edge all day, since she agreed to babysit, and certainly since the tense moments outside her locked bedroom door waiting for Vivian to come out. She is a small five-year-old girl whose life has been turned upside down, and Meredith sympathizes, but the unpredictable nature of her interactions lends a tension to the environment that isn't there when it's just Meredith and Zola.

The girls have been playing together so nicely, but there's an air of impending … _something_ surrounding Vivian. She's mercurial. And beyond that, she has seemed exhausted, with shadows under her eyes that look out of place on such a young child.

Now she's sleeping. And Meredith is relieved. She needs sleep, clearly.

And if she's sleeping … then she's okay.

…

Guilt is curdling Derek's stomach to see the twins frightened – understandably – by his and Amy's intrusion.

"Look what you did." Joy holds out one skinny arm and Derek can see rosy skin around her wrist where he held her to get the phone away. _Damn it._

"I'm sorry, Joy," he says sincerely.

"I'll show my teacher and you'll get arrested." Her trembling voice contradicts her bravado and he remembers how very young the twins are, despite already reaching taller than Amy in height.

"Joy. I'm sorry. I really am. Can the two of you just – look, it's okay, just please sit down." He points to the bed. He takes a step back, away from them, gesturing for Amy to follow. "And we'll stay over here. I promise. Aunt Amy and I are going to figure out what to do and your dad is going to be home soon to help us."

"I want my phone back," Joy insists shakily. "It's mine."

Derek exchanges a glance with Amy, who shakes her head, apparently not trusting Joy not to call the police. The pink phone is still sticking out of her back pocket.

"Not yet, Joy," he says gently. "Soon, I promise."

"I'm going to tell my dad everything you did," Joy threatens and Sarah nods in agreement.

"Good," Derek says calmly, "You should. We want to talk to him too. He's going to be home soon," Derek repeats, hoping it's true, and that Steve will have better luck handling his daughters than Derek has. It seems like they were Zola's age not long ago and their anxious faces are twisting his heart. "Everything's going to be okay," he says quietly.

Tears are running down Sarah's cheeks. She was the crier, he's remembering now, from a hundred family gatherings of skinned knees and accusations of cheating at Monopoly.

"Sarah. Honey, it's okay," he tells her helplessly.

"I'm scared," she whispers.

"I know you are." Derek lowers himself somewhat awkwardly into the girls' purple desk chair, trying to make himself an unintimidating as possible. "I know we scared you and I'm sorry. And I know this has been a really overwhelming afternoon. I know you want to talk to your dad. I want you to talk to him, I do, but I can't give you back your phone because … because you can't call the police right now."

"That's what bad people say," Joy points out, "when they want to hurt you."

"I don't want to hurt you," he says softly. "That's the last thing I want. I want to help your brother and so does Aunt Amy and right now getting the police involved is a very bad idea."

"Why?"

Derek exchanges a glance with Amy; he supposes protecting the twins' innocence is somewhat irrelevant at this point.

"Because some of the things your brother has been doing are very, very serious. They look … bad, if you don't have all the facts, and the police will focus on the bad parts if they come here. I'm sorry I took your phone away, Joy, and I'm sorry about the way I did it," he says calmly, "and I know you both asked us to leave and we didn't, and this is your house, not ours. And you have every right to ask us to leave. But you shouldn't call the police. Because if you call the police, they will come here. And they might kick me out, and Aunt Amy too, but … they'll take Jesse with them when they leave."

The import of his words hang in the air; the twins exchange nervous glances.

"Jesse needs help," Derek says quietly. "Can you trust us to try to help him?"

"We don't even know you," Sarah says softly, wiping her eyes. Derek notices how close together the twins are sitting, supporting each other, and guilt is heavy in his chest.

"You know me, Sarah," he says quietly. "You both do. Look. I know I haven't seen you girls in a few years, but I saw you a lot before that. I know you remember. And I'm still your uncle, even if I live somewhere else now. Hey … I was there when you were born," he recalls. "Your mom didn't want a C-section and your Aunt Addie was the only one who was willing to try it any other way. She and your dad were in there with your mom and I was hanging out with Jesse in the waiting room."

There it is, finally. A clear memory of Jesse – not Sean, not Evan or Tim or Chris, but definitely Jesse, who was around three and wanted to play catch with his uncoordinated little toddler hands while they waited for news on the twins' impending birth. Derek was younger then and when he brought Jesse to the hospital cafeteria for a snack, he saw people eyeing them hand in hand and knew they would assume Jesse was his son. With his messy dark curls and blue eyes, Jesse was visibly a Shepherd even with Steve's side's little snub nose instead of the more substantial Shepherd version. Jesse was tired, climbing into his uncle's lap and cuddling close to sleep.

Derek remembers running his hand through his nephew's rumpled curls, soothing him, and thinking _this is what I want._

But it was never the right time. His sister was a mother again twice over by the end of that night, but fatherhood for Derek would have to wait another decade.

As he reminisces with the goal of gaining back his nieces' trust, he realizes the purple room still feels small but not as claustrophobic now: less cell like and more … cozy, even. The tension is still there, the girls are still sitting close together on the fluffy bedspread of one of the beds, but they're quiet as they listen to Derek. He continues telling the story of the twins' birth, slowly and soothingly, stretching it out because he sees that his words seem to be calming the girls down.

"I saw you right after you were born. I brought Jesse in to see you too, and Grammy brought Sean and Emma. You were both so little. Well. _You_ were bigger," he points at Joy, who smiles just a little bit, "but then you caught up," and he gestures at Sarah. He leans back in the purple chair. "I know I haven't been around in a while but I have known you your whole lives. Jesse needs help and that's why we're here. I love you girls," he says softly, "and I love your brother, and I am not going to let anything happen to any of you. You _do_ know me."

He stops talking; both girls are looking at him. He waits for them to respond, and it's Joy who speaks first.

"You won't let the police take Jesse?"

"I won't let the police take Jesse," he promises.

Joy and Sarah exchange a glance. "Okay," Joy says quietly.

"Okay." Relief floods him, washing away the guilt. "I'm going to go check on your brother." He glances at Amy, who nods. "If there's anything else … that you think you need to show us, show Aunt Amy, okay?"

"Okay."

"Uncle Derek … is Jesse going to be okay?"

"I hope so." He rests a hand on the top of Sarah's head. "We're going to do everything we can to help him."

She smiles wanly and he starts to think maybe they can make this work after all.

And then whatever trust they'd built shatters at the sound of a single word calling upstairs from the foyer.

"Kids?"

All four Shepherds freeze.

Because the voice calling up from downstairs isn't Steve's at all.

It's Nancy's.

* * *

 _To be continued (of course). I know, I'm mean, because there's not just one cliff here, really, but two. So I'm extra mean. But I will update quickly, all the more so when I know you're with me, reading and wanting more! I know there's a lot of Shepherd stuff right now, and Derek is separated from Mer and Zola. If you don't like that aspect of it, bear with me, because lots of togetherness is coming up soon. For the very near future, there's so much Shepherd and Shepherd-adjacent stuff going on that it's all hands on deck. And yes, I promise, all questions will eventually be answered. Thank you, so much, and yeah ... please feed the beast._

 _One cliff or two? (hint: two) I know – I'm the worst._


	20. you left it up to me

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter and overall. I can't believe this story is at 20 chapters already! Hope you enjoy it.

* * *

 _you left it up to me_  
...

* * *

"It's Mom," Sarah whispers unnecessarily, frantically, as Nancy's voice echoes up the stairs.

Joy pushes closed the locked drawer of their dresser and looks from her aunt to her uncle. "What do we-"

"It's okay. I'm going downstairs," Derek decides as he says it.

"Derek-"

"You stay here," he tells Amy.

Nancy is standing at the foot of the stairs with a hand propped on her hip. Her face changes when she sees her brother.

"Derek? What are you doing here?" Predictably, she starts panicking immediately though he can't exactly blame her. "Did something happen to Steve? The kids?"

"Steve and the kids are okay," he assures her, hurrying down the stairs. "Sorry to startle you."

"Thank god." Nancy exhales audibly, resting a hand on the banister. "In that case … what the hell are you doing in my house? I mean, I've been inviting you over for years, and _silence,_ but today's the day?"

Derek realizes he hasn't had much time to think up a believable excuse; luckily, Nancy continues speaking.

"Why are you in Brooklyn? Was your consult at Methodist or –" she stops talking then. "You didn't have a consult, did you. _Derek._ Tell me what's going on, right now!"

"Mom!" Jesse appears in the foyer, suddenly, looking more awake than he has all day. "I called him. I was feeling sick and Uncle Derek came over to help me out."

"You did?" Nancy looks back and forth between them.

Derek nods helplessly.

"Thank you for ... doing that. But why didn't you call me, Jess?"

"You were with Grammy," he says smoothly.

Nancy looks like she's not sure what to believe. Finally, she takes a step toward her son and reaches out to brush his dark hair off his forehead. "You're feeling better now?"

He nods.

Derek sees the expression on Nancy's face – it's a combination of anxiety and relief, and he has a sudden feeling that she has more of an idea than she's letting on of what _sick_ means.

"Okay, then." Nancy presses her lips together. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better, Jesse, and Derek – of course you're welcome here, but you can also let me know ahead of time so I don't have a stroke when I see you."

"Of course," he says quickly.

Nancy glances around. "Where are the girls? They only had morning clinic today; they should be back by now."

Jesse doesn't answer, but the twins are on the staircase already heading down.

"Girls! Are you okay?" Nancy reaches for one of them and the other, studying their faces. It's a strange reaction, Derek thinks, if Nancy actually bought Jesse's story that he was sick.

"We're fine, Mom." Joy answers for both of them.

"You're still in your tennis clothes? When did you get back?"

"Not that long ago," Sarah says.

"We didn't change yet 'cause we wanted to catch up with Uncle Derek," Joy adds when Nancy looks somewhat doubtful.

"Ah." Nancy nods. "Isn't it nice to see your uncle again after so long?"

Both girls nod enthusiastically.

"Jess … you sure you're feeling all right?"

"I'm sure."

"Well … good, then. Girls, why don't you go and get cleaned up." Nancy indicates the staircase. "Derek, do you mind if I do the same thing, actually … we can talk more, if you want, after I change."

He nods weakly, but as Nancy approaches the staircase his heart starts pounding. He can't leave Amy up there to be discovered like a sitting duck.

"Hi, Nancy," a quiet voice says from the stairs, and Derek realizes Amy must have been listening all along.

He's almost afraid to see Nancy's reaction.

For good reason.

…

There's something in the weather, Meredith thinks, plus the unusual amount of free time. With both Zola's parents working full time and Zola in day care, with its precise schedule of activities and naps and snacks.

The long, hot, humid days here are different, and the pounding summer storm is an additional soporific.

With Zola's warm little body cuddled against hers and Viv breathing deeply and peacefully on the other side of the couch, Meredith finds her own eyes drifting closed as the cheerful chatter of the movie Zola picked out continues on the iPad.

It could have been minutes.

Or hours.

All she knows is that an ear-piercing shriek blares through her consciousness and she's vaulted from sleep to waking with violent speed.

She grabs automatically for Zola, whose face is crumpling from being awakened so abruptly, but the shriek didn't come from her. In the seconds it takes to remember where they are with whom, Meredith has already turned, Zola in her arms, to see Viv sitting straight up, eyes wide and focused on something Meredith can't see.

Vivian screams again, sounding utterly terrified; Zola clings to her mother in response and bursts into tears.

"It's okay, it's okay," Meredith tries to soothe both of them, and then props a whimpering Zola on the couch, realizing Viv's need is greater in the moment.

"Viv? Honey, it's okay, you're just dreaming." Meredith sits down next to her.

Viv ignores her completely.

"Vivian? Look at me, sweetie," Meredith encourages, a little unnerved by her eerily distant gaze.

Vivian lets out another scream but it's not wordless this time; she's calling for her father, not seeming to notice that Meredith is sitting right in front of her.

"Your daddy will be back soon, Viv, everything's okay," Meredith soothes, but Viv is looking past her, still ignoring her.

"Mama," Zola calls and Meredith rests a hand on one of her little legs while she talks to Viv, wishing she had an extra set of arms and legs.

"Viv," Meredith tries again, and it's as if she's invisible. And inaudible. Because Viv is looking past her with plaintive, fear-filled eyes, eerily detached from her surroundings.

"Viv-"

"Mommy," Viv calls, and as she cries for her mother – still staring into the distance as if she's somewhere else entirely – she sounds so desperate a part of Meredith feels like crying herself.

She's been keeping her distance, trying not to startle the clearly distraught little girl, but she sounds so desolate that she can't help reaching out for her, sliding an arm around her narrow little shoulders.

She startles her, all right.

Viv shrieks at the contact, her head snapping to attention and her eyes changing focus. She seems to see Meredith for the first time, and then she bursts into tears – full-throated, gasping sobs that sound painful in their intensity.

Zola tugs on her hand, eyes wide, her own tears forgotten. "Vivi hurt, Mama?"

 _Yeah. She really is._

"No, she's okay, sweetie, she had a bad dream."

Meredith tries talking to Vivian in a low voice, giving her space and assuring her she's safe and her dream was just that – a dream.

But Viv is utterly inconsolable. She slithers to the floor when Meredith reaches out one more time to comfort her and then kicks so violently when Meredith tries to take her in her arms that she decides she's making things worse, gives up trying, and lets Viv stay on the living room rug. Meredith hastily drags the coffee table out of reach once Viv's bare foot makes its first contact.

A frightened Zola is clinging to her legs, and Meredith is uncomfortable to be witnessing such distress with no way to make it better. She parks Zola away from the storm, reassuring her as best she can that Viv is fine. Truthfully, she has no idea whether Viv is fine. Her behavior when she first woke up was eerie, unsettling, and Meredith feared for a moment she might be witnessing some form of seizure activity.

What was that she told Derek … that taking care of two kids at once would be fine, since they'd have two of their own soon? She wasn't exactly picturing this when she took on the job.

"It was just a dream, sweetie, everything's fine," Meredith soothes, and Viv's shrieks increase in volume when Meredith talks to her, so she just sits as close as she can without making her lash out, holding a clinging, whimpering Zola in her lap. It's quiet outside the grimy windows now; the storm outside has passed.

All Meredith can do is hope the storm inside will pass quickly as well.

…

" _Amy_?"

Nancy's voice shakes as she turns on her brother. "Derek – did you know – did she – what the hell is she doing here?"

"She's with me," Derek says swiftly, angling his body along the staircase in case he has to get between them – which is ridiculous, or at least it should be.

"With you. You brought _Amy_ here?" Nancy shakes her head. "Unbelievable. Derek, you probably don't know this but Amy isn't welcome in my home anymore."

"I'm sure he could have figured that one out," Amy says under her breath – but purposefully loud enough to be heard – and Nancy stares at her with something akin to disgust.

"You've always had a smart mouth," she says finally. "Too bad it's never connected with your actions."

"Nancy." Derek rubs the bridge of his nose. "Can you just … look, we need to talk to you."

Amy is in the foyer with them now, and she nods.

Nancy glares at her, then turns to Derek, apparently deciding he's serious enough to agree.

"Jess, take the girls in the other room, please." Nancy points.

Nobody moves.

"Go," Nancy orders. "I need to talk to your aunt and uncle."

All three of Nancy's kids are shooting pleading looks Derek's way as they inch toward the door, but Nancy's stern expression demands that he focus on the issue at hand.

"Nancy," Derek says quietly. "Listen. Jesse's doing better now, but he was in bad shape when he got here."

Concern flickers across his sister's face.

"He wasn't … sick, exactly," Derek continues, feeling terribly awkward.

Nancy holds a hand up to her face for a moment, massaging the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are dark and intense when she takes her hand away. "Jesse is a teenager," she says, her voice sounding a little distant. "He's … experimenting. He doesn't always make the best choices."

"It's a lot more than experimenting, Nance," Amy says softly.

"You don't know what you're talking about." Nancy glares at Amy. "And you need to leave my house. Now."

"Nancy, please."

" _Go_ , Amy, before I get the police and tell them you violated a court order." Nancy pauses, clearly not expecting Derek to know the background, then continues when he doesn't question it.

Amy looks back and forth between her siblings.

Nancy focuses on her brother. "Derek, I don't know what your game is here, but fine, stay if you want. I'm sorry Jesse bothered you, and I do appreciate your looking in on him, but it's fine. And you are never to bring Amy to this house again, do you hear me?"

Derek recognizes the bossy tone of Nancy's voice from their shared childhood.

"I hear you, Nancy, but you're not hearing us. Please listen for a minute. Jesse's in trouble, Nance."

"Derek, you don't know him. You haven't spent any real time with him in six years."

"I spent time with him today when he was so intoxicated before noon that he couldn't stand up," Derek says quietly.

Nancy's jaw tenses and anger flashes in her eyes before she gets control. "I'll talk to him," she says finally. "I will. He shouldn't have … I'm sorry you had to deal with that."

"It's not that. I'm glad I could help," Derek responds. "But, Nancy…"

"You shouldn't have brought Amy," Nancy says. "Jesse's at a sensitive age. And her … influence is the last thing he needs."

"Mom, Aunt Amy was trying to help," Joy pipes in; apparently she's been listening from the staircase, suggesting strongly that Nancy's childhood penchant for eavesdropping is genetic.

"Joy. You shouldn't be listening to us, honey. Go in the den and wait for me." She glares at Derek and Amy. "You had no right involving my _twelve_ -year-olds in … whatever this is."

"We're not babies," Joy protests.

"Of course you're not," Nancy says. "That's not the issue."

All three siblings shift to see that Nancy's three are together on the staircase, apparently having scrapped the idea of waiting in the den altogether.

"Mom, really, it's fine." Jesse shoves some dark hair out of his eyes. He looks … normal. Fine. It's unsettling, really. Derek is reminded uncomfortably of Amy's quick switches between obviously affected and perfectly able to behave appropriately.

"Jess, I asked you to go into the other room, please. Joy, Sarah, go with him."

Jesse sighs and descends the few stairs he's climbed.

"Look, Mom, it's really not a big deal."

Nancy folds her arms.

"We're only here to help," Amy says quietly – a mistake, apparently, because Nancy turns on her.

Nancy turns on Amy. "To help? Right. You're always trying to help. Doesn't work out too well for you, though, does it?"

"It's _really_ a big deal, Jesse," Amy says, directing her words to her nephew now. She turns back to her sister. "Nancy – please listen to me."

"Mom, don't listen to her," Jesse cuts in. "She's making a big deal out of nothing. Sorry, Aunt Amy," he adds, his tone jarringly respectful, "Really, I know you're trying to help, but you're wrong."

Joy and Sarah both look uncomfortable.

"Jesse needs help," Amy says quietly. "Let us help you find the right place for him."

"The right … _place_?" Nancy's face is flushed, her eyes glittering with outrage as she glares at Amy. "Don't you dare talk about my son to me. You don't know him, or what he needs."

"I do know him. I know an addict when I see one."

Nancy's eyes are so furious that Derek takes a step between them.

"How dare you," Nancy spits. "How dare you speak like that in front of my daughters. They're _children._ "

"Well, those children have been helping Jesse write prescriptions for Ritalin under _your_ name."

Nancy's outraged face pales now, the twins are glaring at Amy, but no one looks angrier than Jesse.

"You _told_ ," he turns on his sisters.

Before anyone can stop him he's advanced on Joy, one of his swinging arms connecting with her face hard enough to knock her down, bringing her head in contact with the leg of the hall table.

And that's when Derek realizes there's no turning back.

…

Meredith is still sitting on the floor next to the breathlessly sobbing Vivian, now armed with resources for when Vivian stops crying: a juice box, a soft damp washcloth. Zola is propped under a blanket on the couch with a stuffed animal, iPad and headphones to keep her going through the storm.

Cross-legged, feeling impotent and strangely unnerved, Meredith recites her choices in her mind, running through lists of contingencies: Viv could cry so hard she vomits, or gets so short of breath she loses consciousness, forcing re-oxygenation, she could return to whatever state semi-conscious state she was in when she was screaming, she could stand up so quickly that Meredith can't grab her and run out of the apartment –

But she doesn't. She stays in a sad, soggy little ball until finally her sobs trail off and she doesn't make any more noise other than hitching breaths and the occasional raspy little cough.

With a sigh, her body relaxes the slightest bit, more fetal than ball now, her blue eyes swollen and ringed with red. Meredith wipes her face very gently with the cool washcloth, careful not to irritate her inflamed skin.

"You feeling a little better, Viv?"

She nods very slightly.

"Good. I'm so glad." She's speaking softly, trying not to keep Vivian as calm as possible. "Everything's okay now."

Viv looks confused, almost as if she has no idea why she was so upset.

"It's okay." Meredith studies her tearstained face. "Can you sit up, sweetie?"

Viv shrugs, but lets Meredith help her sit up and, when she doesn't protest, lift her onto her lap. It might be more for own comfort than Vivian's; seeing her so inconsolable was an almost physical shock. Vivian doesn't push her away but doesn't cuddle either; she's light and long, bony to hold, a much different tactile experience from holding soft little Zola.

"Can I look at your foot?" Meredith asks gently. "You banged it on the coffee table."

"I did?" Viv's voice is tear-rough and quiet. She looks confused again, but she nods slowly.

Meredith examines her little toe, red and angry but not too swollen and not broken. "You just stubbed your toe," she tells her with a smile. Automatically she dips her head to give the little toe a kiss like she would for Zola, then hopes she hasn't overstepped.

Viv is looking at her curiously, but she doesn't flinch. Then she's quiet, though she responds to Meredith's instructions, sipping the proffered juice box, letting Meredith help her blow her nose. It's a while before she speaks again, and when she does, her voice is scratchier than usual, hoarse from her crying.

"Take a bath," Viv says.

Meredith, confused, wonders if she smells. Then she realizes it wasn't a request or an order, but an answer to the question still in the air, the one she directed to Viv about what makes her feel better when she's upset.

"That's a good idea, Viv. I'll run you a bath."

"Me too," Zola says, leaning companionably on Meredith's legs and then, in a sweet gesture, patting one of Viv's bony little knees.

Viv surprises her by pulling a bathing suit out of the canvas bag Mark left with them and changing into it herself before rejoining them, a little shyly. It's a rather jarringly cheerful swimsuit on solemn little Viv: a white and yellow ruffled two-piece covered in brightly colored daisy.

"Pretty," Zola says admiringly, touching one of the ruffles with approval.

Then Zola insists on putting on her favorite bathing suit, which is a pink one-piece with a skirt and a large green octopus on the front.

"See, it's a dress," Zola explains to Viv, twirling to make the skirt flutter, and then grabbing Meredith's leg when the spin makes her dizzy.

Thankful to have a clear plan, Meredith draws a warm bath for both girls, letting them take turns squeezing bubble bath into the streaming water, and then finally exhaling for what seems like the first time since Vivian woke them both up with her screams. _What the hell was that?_ Meredith still has no idea. Viv is quiet now, calm, in her cheerful little ruffled swimsuit, so different from the shrieking child earlier that Meredith has the distinctly unnerving sensation that perhaps she herself is the one who dreamed it all.

…

For one brief moment after Joy falls to the ground, there's nothing but shocked silence from every Shepherd present.

And then chaos erupts.

"Joy!"

Nancy is on the floor beside her in a heartbeat; her daughter, who seems too stunned to cry, is curled on her side, one hand holding her cheek while blood trickles from her nose.

As quickly as he can, Derek gets a grip on a trembling Jesse, holding him against the wall of the den. "Don't be stupid, Jesse, just calm down," he orders him quietly. "Calm down now."

"Joy," Jesse mumbles, straining around Derek's hold to try to see her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!"

Sarah is crying enough for both twins and when Amy puts her arms around her she doesn't push her away.

"Nancy, don't move her yet," Derek instructs but she ignores him, lifting Joy upright and holding her against her own body. There's blood on the sleeve of Nancy's expensive-looking blouse, droplets trickling down Joy's formerly pristine white tennis shirt.

"I didn't mean it," Jesse says desperately, meeting Derek's eyes with his watery blue ones. "I didn't mean to hurt her."

"Just sit here, and don't move." Derek guides Jesse to the same chair in the corner of the open living room, visible from the hallway, where they propped him up what feels like a lifetime ago so Derek and Amy could clean the hallway floor.

When he's sure Jesse understands his instructions and is willing to comply, Derek kneels down in front of Nancy and Joy. His niece is conscious, but she looks a little dazed, which concerns him. Nancy's free hand roams down the leg of the coffee table and comes up red.

" _Derek_ ," Nancy raises pleading eyes to him.

"It's okay," he says, quietly and with no real basis. "Let me take a look."

Nancy nods, but Joy draws away from his hands when he tries to touch her scalp, whimpering softly.

"Shh," Nancy tightens her hold a little bit when Joy resists. "It's okay, sweetheart, let Uncle Derek look."

Carefully, Derek runs his fingers over her skull, finds the area that's already starting to swell. He makes do with the flashlight from his phone to study her pupils. She didn't strike the table hard, he can tell; the blood is coming from her face where Jesse struck her. She should still get checked out, and that's what he tells Nancy, who seems distracted.

"Sarah, go get some tissues, honey," Nancy orders. "And ice."

"I'm sorry," Jesse is mumbling again. "I didn't mean it."

"Shut up," Sarah tells him, her voice trembling. "We _hate_ you now, Jess."

"Sarah, honey … don't," Nancy sounds exhausted. Amy puts an arm around Sarah and leads her out of the room to find what Nancy requested.

"I'm sorry!" Jesse cries again, clutching the arms of the chair in what seems to be an attempt to listen to Derek's instructions. "Don't hate me. Joy, don't hate me!"

He presses his heels against the floor, seeming to be desperate to stand up, and Nancy doesn't miss it.

"Don't move from that chair," she says harshly without looking up, her attention still on Joy and her weak attempts to push away the ice Nancy is holding to her face.

Derek continues to stand guard over Jesse, Amy is comforting a visibly distraught Sarah, and Nancy is speaking softly to the injured Joy, blood still trickling down her chin.

And since that's the scene Steve walks in on, no one is surprised when his face drains of color and his bag drops to the floor with an unceremonious thud.

…

Meredith is practically giddy with relief that Vivian seems so much better. Under a sea of strawberry-scented bubbles, she and Zola are talking seriously about the dolls they're holding.

Viv has a tight hold on the doll Zola offered her – Zo likes her rubber duck and her realistic-looking plastic ferry boat, but she rarely takes a bath without a doll along for the ride, which she soaps enthusiastically and with whom she can hold entire conversations.

"She's a mermaid," Viv says about her doll.

"No, 'cause she has feet," Zola points out.

"She has a tail too, you just can't see it," Viv explains.

"She does?"

"Yeah."

Zola considers this. "Okay." She smiles at Viv. "Are you a mermaid too?"

"No. I'm a regular girl."

Zola accepts this, then raises one of her little feet out of the water, giggling when she splashes herself with dripping bubbly water. "Me too, regular," she says.

Viv smiles a little at Zola.

Meredith watches them, a pang in her heart at Viv's expression. The half-smile is the closest she's seen Viv come to _regular girl_.

Quickly, she glances at her phone. She asked Mark to text when he was on his way over, to make sure she had time to get the girls out of the tub before she answered the door.

They're so cute together in the bubble-filled tub that she's tempted to snap a picture to show Derek and Mark, but she decides not to at the last minute, just propping her feet up on the closed toilet to watch the girls play.

"Mommy, you can come in too," Zola offers, patting the bubbly water, and Meredith has to hide a wide smile.

"I think I'll sit this one out, Zozo, but you guys enjoy it. Is the water still warm enough?"

"Yeah."

"You're warm enough too, Viv?"

She nods.

Zola turns to Vivian. "VIvi, where's your mommy?"

Her tone is one of mild interest, but Meredith cringes, picturing Viv descending back into misery or at least wanting to hide.

"In the hospital," she says simply.

"Oh. With my grammy?"

Viv looks to Meredith, and then Zola does too. Meredith nods, slightly.

"Grammy's nice and she can play blocks with your mommy," Zola says with satisfaction. She pauses. "Does your mommy like to play blocks?"

Meredith is continuing to cringe internally but Viv doesn't seem upset by the question.

"She likes to play blocks with me," Viv says. "She's really good at blocks."

"Mine too," Zola says loyally, then smiles at Vivian. "Want to see my boat?"

Vivian nods, and just like that the strange mood is broken, and the girls take turns floating the ferryboat model across the bubbles toward each other. Meredith notes with some interest that Viv didn't seem distressed by Zola's questions about her mother – it seemed, in fact, almost like she wanted to talk about her. Perhaps, in all the chaos that has surrounded her family in recent months, she's been denied that opportunity.

Meredith files the information away for later. For now, her attention is on two little girls in brightly-colored bathing suits … and a ferryboat.

…

Steve has always struck Derek as stoic, calm. Difficult to shock. He looks pretty shocked now, though, taking in the scene of an anxious Nancy holding an injured Joy, a distraught Sarah being comforted by Amy, a panicked Jesse confined and apologizing at random intervals with Derek standing watch over him.

Steve looks from one of them to the other.

"What the hell happened?"

"Dad!" Jesse calls out. "I didn't mean it, Dad!"

"Mean what? Nancy, what's going on here?"

Sarah pulls away from Amy to run to her father and he holds her close for a moment, still trying to take the scene in around him, then pushes her back to cup her face. "What happened, baby, are you hurt?"

"No," she whimpers, and he kisses the top of her head before he releases her to crouch down next to Nancy, the two of them exchanging looks and low-voiced words that go over Derek's head.

Whatever Nancy told Steve seems to catalyze him; with his calm efficiency Sarah is calmed down, Joy is deemed okay enough to sit with her sister on one of the soft living room couches, icing her swelling nose, and Jesse is shut in the kitchen with instructions not to move until they come talk to them.

And then the four adults have the foyer to talk in low voices, with half an eye on the girls, visible in the living room while the closed kitchen door confirms Jesse is relatively safe as well.

It becomes clear that Nancy hasn't mentioned the prescription pads to Steve during whatever quick moments they've stolen alone since he returned home, but his face is set in lines of concern anyway.

"We need to find treatment for him," Steve says quietly, focused on Nancy, whose rigid posture screams _no_ even as she remains stubbornly silent.

Amy is quiet, standing close to Derek and avoiding joining the conversation – perhaps because Nancy glares daggers at her when she tries.

"I think that's a good idea," Derek says carefully.

"He's so young," Nancy interjects.

"That's a good thing. He's malleable, they can help him – Nancy, it's gone beyond helping him ourselves. Look at what he did to Joy."

"He didn't mean to," Nancy says quickly. "He was upset, he lashed out." She turns to her siblings as if looking for reinforcement.

"What was he so upset about, anyway?"

Derek feels Amy's sharp little fingers poke him in the back, where Nancy can't see, and sure enough, Nancy deflects the question.

"We'll find a good place. You remember Tony, from med school, Nancy, this is his area. I'll talk to him. He works with adolescents, he'll have a recommendation."

Nancy is starting to look defeated. "Steve…"

"He'll be okay." Steve has his arm around Nancy now. "He needs this, Nance."

Nancy looks slowly from one of her siblings to the next, to her husband, into the living room where her daughters are sitting, and at the closed kitchen door, then draws a deep, audible breath.

"Okay." She says it again, as if trying to convince herself: "Okay."

The relief in the room is palpable. It was almost _too_ easy – Derek will regret thinking that only a moment later.

Steve hugs Nancy, sounding as relieved as Derek feels. "Thank you, honey. I know this is the right decision. Amy's been telling me for a while he needed real treatment but I guess it had to come to this for us to really see it."

Derek feels Amy freeze next to him, and in a flash he realizes why.

 _Shit._

His curse never leaves his lips and Steve doesn't seem to notice.

Apparently blind to Amy's frantic lip-zipping gesture, he continues, soothingly, to Nancy: "The point is, Jess is going to get the help he needs, and I'm so glad you're on board now."

Amy and Derek both watch helplessly as Nancy tenses visibly, then pulls away from her husband, her voice deadly calm.

"What do you mean, _Amy's been telling you for a while?_ "

* * *

 _To be continued. I think this might call for an "oh no she didn't!" or rather "oh no he didn't!" since Steve is the one who spilled the beans. I promise next chapter Derek and Meredith and Zola will be reunited. Thanks for being patient with the unfolding of the story; the Shepherd chaos is overwhelming - to Derek too - while Mer needs to deal with Viv and, in the next chapter, Mark. To those of you missing Addie, I promise she's coming back. She's a big part of this story, and you'll see her more and hear more from her soon._

 _Okay, for me this was almost a brief author's note (almost). But I did manage to get the update up today (it's not quite midnight in my time zone), so pretty please keep me in reviews and I'll do my best to keep the pace as nutty as family time with the Shepherds! xoxo_


	21. tangled up in blue

_**Thank you so much!**_ **As always, for the reviews and comments.** Rockstar reviewers, you know who you are and piping in every chapter makes me wants to write more and update faster, so thank you extra much. I'm probably going to have to step back from frequent updates for a bit, so here's a nice long chapter in the meantime. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

 _tangled up in blue_  
...

* * *

For a moment after Steve lets slip that, unbeknownst to Nancy, he's been speaking with Amy about Jesse's issues, everyone is silent.

Nancy's eyes are wide with accusation; Amy shifts uncomfortably next to Derek.

"Nancy," Steve says quietly, "I spoke to Amy about Jess, because I was concerned."

"How could you do this? How could you involve her – with _my_ child –"

"He's my child too," Steve continues calmly, "and he needed help. More help than we could give him. Amy understood – "

"Don't talk about Amy to me," Nancy cuts in.

"Honey," Steve says patiently, "I'm sorry you're finding out this way, but Amy has been helpful, she has Jesse's best interest at heart."

"Tell me, something, _honey._ Why are you taking her side?" Nancy's gaze is deadly. "What exactly did my baby sister do to get you to think _she_ does anything but screw up everything she touches?"

The meaning behind Nancy's question is clear, and Derek sees anger flash across Steve's face at the veiled accusation. He doesn't raise his voice but his tone makes it obvious how serious he is.

"Don't embarrass yourself, Nancy."

Derek sees two spots of color rise on her prominent cheekbones.

"Don'tdefend Amy in _my_ house," she hisses.

Tension crackles in the air; Derek exchanges a glance with Amy, who looks uncomfortable.

"Maybe we should go," Amy says quickly.

"You should never have come," Nancy spits.

"Thank you so much for everything. You should be able to hail a cab on Clinton," Steve says. He turns to include Derek in the conversation: "Are the two of you headed in the same direction?"

"Amy's living with Mark and Addison," Nancy informs Steve coldly. "She's probably sleeping with him too."

"Shut up, Nancy," Amy says tiredly.

"Because if you're not heading the same way," Steve continues calmly as if no one interrupted him, "we can call my car service. Getting two cabs might be-"

"Would you _stop_ giving them directions!" Nancy rages.

"Nancy, lower your voice," Steve says firmly. "The kids can hear you."

Nancy looks torn; Derek has a feeling she might choose upsetting her children as long as she can tear into Amy. Amy, perhaps recognizing this, already has her hand on the doorknob. "I'm leaving, Nance, okay? I'm sorry I upset you," she adds, rather generously, Derek thinks, and Nancy ignores her.

"Thank you," Steve says quietly to Amy and Derek sees a look pass between them that isn't going to help matters if Nancy noticed too.

Nancy's head swings like a three-way tennis match from Amy to Derek to Steve and back again and Derek winces, well aware from growing up with Nancy that one of the surest triggers of her temper is feeling ganged-up on.

Nancy turns on her husband as soon as the door closes behind Amy. "I want you out of this house."

"No," he says calmly, "it's my house too, and I'm not leaving the kids, and I'm not leaving you when you're like this. Just settle down so we can talk about it."

"You're not going to go? Fine. You stay, I'll go." Nancy's lips are trembling. "And I'm taking the girls with me."

"No, you're not. Joy's injured and she needs to rest. Sarah's shaken up. Jess is … They've all been through enough. Let's just calm down, say good night to Derek, and then the two of us can talk."

"I don't have anything to say to you," she snaps. "Not after what you did."

"Then I'll talk and you can listen."

"I'm going to go too," Derek says quickly when there's a break in their argument. "Nancy – I'm sorry," he adds; she ignores him.

"Thank you for helping, Derek," Steve says, and then glances toward the living room. "Joy seemed okay when you checked her out?"

Derek nods. "You might want to get her scanned anyway."

"We will. I want to talk to a buddy of mine at Methodist anyway, see if he has thoughts on Jess."

Nancy is angled away from Derek, arms folded, shoulders radiating tension, so he takes the easiest way out and gives her a nod on his way out.

 _Just another nice, calm day with the Shepherd family._

…

Meredith adds more warm water to the tub three times before the girls are ready to get out. She's pleased to see that the bath seems to have calmed Viv.

Vivian fishes a pair of pajamas out of the canvas tote bag Mark sent with her – pink with a pattern of red hearts, they seem like another relic of a more cheerful child Meredith hasn't met. She's impressed at how well-equipped the bag is. "You can fit a lot of things in there," she smiles at Viv, "it's like Mary Poppins's bag."

Viv looks up. "You know Mary Poppins?"

"Oh, yeah. That's a great movie." It was one of Meredith's favorite, growing up. She eschewed movies with benevolent parents – that was too far from her own experience to be worth fantasies. Loving surrogates, though? Like a nanny? That she could do.

"It's my mom's favorite from my movies," Viv says.

Meredith smiles at her, thinking she and Addison might have a little more in common than she initially realized. She helps Vivian change, noting how self-sufficient she is – even wringing out her own little swimsuit and hanging both pieces neatly in the bathroom to dry.

While Zola sits beside them in her cute purple bathrobe, Meredith offers to help Vivian fix her hair, which is hanging in long messy pieces around her little face. Strands of it are crisp from the soapy bubbles – she hadn't wanted to pin it up – and Viv is toying with the stringy ends.

A shadow crosses the little girl's face at Meredith's question. "No," she says abruptly.

"Okay," Meredith is worried she might have offended her. "That's fine, sweetie, we don't need to-"

"When is my dad coming?" Viv interrupts, folding her arms.

Meredith smiles as reassuringly as she can, but luckily Zola keeps her from having to answer: delighted by Viv's heart-printed pajamas, she wants to put on her own.

And that's why when the doorman finally calls up to announce Mark's arrival, Meredith is flanked by two little girls in brightly-colored summer pajamas.

Mark returns with a large pizza box topped with a sizable paper bag, and when Vivian runs toward him Meredith envisions smashed tomato sauce and cheese all over the hallway – but Mark squats to catch her with one arm and stands up with Viv, the pizza, and the accessories all in one piece.

Meredith is impressed.

"I played some football in college," Mark smiles. "And I'm used to getting tackled by this one." He kisses the side of Vivian's head and indicates the pizza box, then turns to Zola, who is staring up at him with interest.

"Hey Zola, you hungry? Do you like pizza?"

"I like pizza," Zola says eagerly.

"I can take that." Meredith relieves Mark of the pizza box and bag and brings them to the kitchen table.

Mark is still holding Viv. "Wearing jammies already? Is it later than I thought, or are you having a slumber party?"

Viv looks down at her heart-printed pajamas and shrugs.

Mark glances at Meredith and must see something on her face, because he sets Viv on her feet. "Go wash your hands before we eat," he instructs, and Meredith sends Zola with her.

"I gave the girls a bath," Meredith says when they're alone.

"Oh. Viv likes the water." Mark seems to realize there's more to the story.

"Vivian fell asleep when we were watching a movie during the storm – actually, we all fell asleep – but she seemed to have a nightmare and was pretty upset. She suggested the bath herself and it really seemed to help-"

She stops talking abruptly, confused by the look of pain on Mark's face. For one terrible moment she's afraid he's going to cry. Then he sinks down into one of the kitchen chairs.

"I didn't say anything. I'm so sorry." He looks miserably at her. "I can't believe I didn't think to – she never sleeps during the day, not away from home. She must have been comfortable here." He takes a deep breath and Meredith listens as he gives her the beginning brush strokes of a picture of sleep disturbance that sounds incredibly difficult for both child and parent.

"She didn't nap for very long," Meredith says tentatively.

"Yeah. She has atypical sleep patterns anyway. Advanced REM stages – that she gets from me. I didn't learn all this until we had them do a sleep study when the problems started. But I remember being a kid and I'd wake up from, you know, a catnap or whatever and I knew I'd been dreaming but I shouldn't have been, y'know, not yet. Anyway."

"Did you sleepwalk, when you were young?" Meredith asks.

"No, but Addison did." He grimaces. "The combination is … problematic, especially under stress, but she'll grow out of it. That's what happened to Addie, around the age Viv is now. So. We're hoping."

There's a moment of silence while Meredith imagines they're both contemplating the concept of _hope_ and then both girls return to the kitchen with sparkling clean hands.

They sit around the kitchen table – Meredith didn't realize how hungry she was, and the pizza smells heavenly. Zola takes a few bites, gives Mark a tomato-stained thumbs up, and then requests salad.

Meredith picks vegetables out of the salad for Zola – she loves cucumbers and olives especially – slicing them smaller out of habit even though she really doesn't need that anymore.

She smiles as Zola happily piles the vegetables into her mouth, then chases them with a bite of pizza.

Vivian, meanwhile, is sitting cross-legged in her chair, leaning back away from the table and twirling a scallop-edged carrot slice between her fingers.

"Vivi." Mark takes the carrot from her. "How about eating some food instead of just playing with it?"

Vivian scowls. She hasn't touched the piece of pizza Mark placed in front of her, or the little pile of salad next to it – other than playing with the carrot.

"I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat something, Viv."

She pushes her plate away and stands up, leaning against Mark's chair.

"Come on, baby, sit down and take a few bites," he coaxes, but she pulls away when he tries to take her on his lap.

"Can I go play?"

"Not until you eat something. … Viv, come back here," he calls when she disappears into the living room anyway.

Mark sighs. "I'm sorry. It's a battle to get her to eat anything lately. Except candy. At this rate she'll end up with a mouthful of false teeth and maybe scurvy but at least she won't starve to death."

His words are brash, even joking, but Meredith sees real fear in his eyes.

"I'm sure I could handle it a hell of a lot better," he admits. "Not just the food. Everything. I don't know. It's been tough on her."

It's been tough on him too, she thinks. On all three of them.

To Mark, Meredith just nods sympathetically. "She did end up finishing most of her frozen yogurt earlier, if that helps. And she had a juice box after she … woke up."

"Liquid candy." Mark raises his eyes to the heavens. "I guess that's something. Thank you," he adds quickly, "really, you've been so good with her and I know she's not easy, not these days."

"She's a great kid," Meredith says firmly.

Mark opens his mouth and then closes it again. "Thanks." His tone is gruff and he looks away.

Vivian appears in the doorway again, reluctantly. She drags her feet all the way to Mark's side and he lifts her onto his lap as soon as she's close enough to snag.

"You have to eat something, Vivi. Come on," he says quietly.

"But I don't like pizza."

"Everyone likes pizza," he says, sounding much more cheerful now that Viv is back in the room. "Plus this is from the place you said you liked, remember?" He points to the box. "We went there and you…"

Mark stops talking, and Meredith can only assume that the rest of the story involves Addison, too.

"No, I don't like it," Vivian whines, turning her head into his shoulder.

"Okay. I guess we should probably get going." Mark looks rather longingly at his own pizza and Meredith is pretty sure she hears his stomach growl.

"Why don't you finish eating first," Meredith suggests, sensing he feels the need for permission. "You must be starving."

"Yeah. Okay." Mark takes another bite of his pizza, then glances down at Vivian, who's curled up on his lap now. "Hey." He shifts her gently. "I don't want you to fall asleep yet, baby."

"I'm _not,_ " she says defensively, rubbing her eyes.

He sits her up against him. "Take a bite," he suggests, holding out his slice of pizza and after a moment she leans forward and takes a small, grudging bite.

"How was that?" he asks after she swallows.

"Bad," she says solemnly, and Meredith has to admire her commitment.

Actually, the pizza is great. Worth living in New York City? Probably not. But it's great.

Vivian ends up taking a few more bites as part of a complex blackmail scheme, supported by Zola, to finish watching the movie that served as the background for their earlier nap.

"I think Meredith and Zola probably want some time to themselves, Viv," Mark says gently.

Meredith assures him it's fine, and they set both girls up in the living room with the DVD Zola selected earlier –

" _Trash Panda?"_ Mark reads, laughing. "What kind of movie are you showing these kids?"

Meredith smiles. "It was a present from a friend. She was trying to prove a point about kids' movies and animals and … it's about a family of raccoons, nothing worse than that."

"I don't know. Raccoons are pretty terrible."

They both watch the girls for a moment, sitting side by side on the couch in their pajamas. Zola is holding her stuffed kangaroo, and Meredith is touched to see she's provided Viv with a plush piglet in case she, too, wants to hold an animal.

Meredith glances at Mark. To say he looks drawn is an understatement; his face is practically grey. "You want some coffee?"

He nods, and they withdraw to the kitchen, where they can talk without the girls hearing but still keep an eye on them.

Meredith brews coffee, its scent alone helping to revive her, sticking to innocuous small talk and occasionally looking over at Mark to see how he's doing.

The kitchen chairs seem too small for him, like he's trying to sit in a dollhouse. She doesn't remember his seeming this large, this out of place, the other time she met him. Then again, she recalls Addison being pretty tall and imposing herself, perhaps side by side they blended into each other.

When they're sitting across from each other holding matching earthenware mugs provided by the furnished apartment, Meredith remembers Vivian's seeming desire to talk about her mother. She's been hesitant to ask Mark how Addison is doing, but maybe he's also starved for opportunities to talk about her.

Only one way to find out.

"How … did today go?" She kicks herself inwardly for the way she phrased the question.

"The tests?" Mark shrugs. "And the meetings. It was a long day. A long, unresolved day."

Meredith nods uncertainly, not sure what he means.

"Derek told you she's refusing treatment?"

She nods again.

"Yeah, it's true but it's not the whole story. Not exactly. She … _considers_ it," he pronounces the words carefully. "We've been back and forth, in and out of the place – she was on the schedule at MCH this week but I don't think anyone was surprised when she cancelled. It would be easier, maybe, if she just said no outright but I don't want that either. So … she considers it."

Meredith tries to understand.

"There are neoadjuvant therapies – she's incredibly resistant to it, despite her experience with patients – successful experience! And there's surgery. Which could probably have been avoided altogether," he grimaces, "but now that she's waited this long, may end up being the best option. Except she doesn't want to do it until she's far enough along that she can deliver if there's fetal distress during surgery."

Meredith notices that he speaks only in terms of Addison, and not the child she's carrying: _until she's far enough along,_ not _until the baby is far enough along._

"You know she's a fetal surgeon?"

Meredith nods.

"She's taken on some crazy cases. There's no … fetus, unborn baby, whatever, that she doesn't want to try to save. It makes her a great doctor. But it's going to end up killing her."

He stops talking abruptly, and apologizes. Meredith shakes her head, indicating there's no need to apologize. They're speaking in quiet tones; the girls are absorbed in the movie in the other room. Mark looks pained, glancing out into the living room, and Meredith sees he must be considering the child already born who could lose her mother to save the child she's carrying.

It's impossible. It's … Solomonic, and Meredith rests a hand almost unconsciously on the slight swell of her belly and is flooded with guilty relief that she doesn't have to make that choice herself.

"I'm so sorry," she offers the words quietly, knowing they're not enough.

"Be sorry for her, not me," Mark says grimly. He glances at Meredith. "You probably already think I'm a terrible person."

"I don't think that."

"Well, maybe you should. I, uh, I told her she was playing Russian Roulette with all our lives."

"It's understandable," Meredith says, "being angry."

"I threatened her with Viv." Mark is staring past Meredith, looking utterly bereft. "I told her … that if she didn't mind dying and leaving a five-year-old behind then she might as well say goodbye now. I said I wouldn't bring her back."

He pauses. "That was when she was in the hospital the second time. No – the third."

Meredith just listens. The pain on his face, in his voice, is obvious. The self-flagellation just makes it worse.

He looks miserably at Meredith. "What kind of person does that?"

"A person who's scared," she says tentatively, then more firmly. "A person who doesn't want to lose his wife and is trying to protect his daughter."

His face is buried in his oversized hands and Meredith is thankful that the view from the living room is blocked. She gives him a moment before she speaks.

"Did you?"

Her probe is gentle and if she's wrong it might make things worse – but she doesn't think she's wrong.

"Did I what?"

"Keep Vivian away from her."

He shakes his head. "I couldn't do that."

"You're not a terrible person, Mark."

He glances up at her. "Thanks. You, uh, haven't heard the whole thing, though."

Before he can say anything else, the end credit song of _Trash Panda_ echoes from the living room, and four little bare feet slap the parquet floors into the kitchen.

The girls are both bleary-eyed after their long day, and Meredith refuses Mark's offer to help clean up and ushers him and Vivian, toward the door. "Say goodbye and thank you to Meredith," he instructs her, one hand on the knob.

"Bye, thank you," Vivian mumbles, lifting her head just enough for the words to be audible before laying it back down again on Mark's shoulder.

"Anytime. Thanks for coming over, Viv, and thank you for playing so nicely with Zola."

"Do you want a hand or …" Her voice trails off. They do this all the time.

"Nah, we're good." Mark hoists the canvas tote bag higher on his shoulder, pats Vivian's little back, and then they're off.

Meredith exhales for what she's pretty sure is the first time since what feels like a lifetime ago – when she couldn't find the girls, and discovered them on the terrace.

"Mama … where'd Vivi go?"

Meredith scoops Zola into her arms. "Home, so she and her daddy can go to bed."

"Oh." Zola considers this. "Is it bedtime?"

"Yes." _Thank god._

Zola is smiling, and Meredith kisses one soft cheek. "How was your day with Viv?" she asks tentatively.

" _So_ fun," Zola breathes happily. "Again, tomorrow?"

 _Not unless Mommy can add tequila to her morning coffee._

"Um … we'll see, sweetie," she tells Zola as brightly as she can.

…

Amy is sitting out on the stoop when he shuts the front door behind him, hot air moving gently around in something almost like a breeze.

Derek sits down next to her. "I didn't sleep with him," Amy says without looking up, her voice small. "I didn't do anything with him."

"Of course you didn't. No one thinks you did, Amy. Nancy's just … being Nancy. She's scared."

"I did sleep with Mark, though. I mean, before he and Addison got together, but …" Her voice trails off.

"I don't really need to hear this, Amy."

"Right." She pauses. "Derek, was I ever like that? Like Jesse was, I mean, like … violent?"

"No." He glances at her. "Well, you did slap Addison once, but she's a fairer match to you than Joy is to Jess."

"I did?"

"Yeah. Not like Jess, though. You, uh, slapped like a girl. And then … Addison slapped you back. A lot harder," he recalls, wincing slightly at the memory.

"Really?" Amy sounds fascinated. "Wow. I don't remember that."

"Well, it's not exactly Addie's favorite story, it never came up much after you … afterwards." Derek pauses, smiling a little. "It _is_ one of Nancy's favorite stories, but Steve can usually keep her from retelling it too often."

"How did they leave it, has Nancy killed him yet?"

"I think Steve can handle himself." He's certainly the only person Derek has ever seen who can handle Nancy.

Amy nods. "Steve's a good guy," she says.

"He is."

Amy hugs her knees. "How is Nancy married to someone like Steve and _I'm_ the one who's still single?"

"Nancy has good qualities," he says tentatively.

Amy considers it. "I guess she was pretty hot before she got knocked up four times."

"Amy." He nudges her with his shoulder, and she nudges him back. They sit side by side for a few minutes, gathering strength before they walk the blocks Steve recommended to hail the cab that will bring them home.

…

Meredith pulls open the door before Derek can turn the key and they fall into each other, breathing in familiar scents combined with the heat of the city.

"How was your day?" Derek asks warily, drawing back and tucking a lock of hair behind one of her ears.

Meredith studies his face. "From the looks of it … about the same as yours."

With Zola asleep, they take the baby monitor into the bathroom and turn on the shower.

"You first," Meredith prompts, when the first sprays of hot water have started to relax them.

"Where do I begin?" Derek pauses. "Okay. Get ready for this. If you can follow along, it means you're a true Shepherd. My sister accused my _other_ sister of sleeping with her husband when actually the other sister was trying to help her husband help his son. What do you think?"

"I think it kind of makes sense … if the first sister is Nancy and the other sister is Amy."

"You really do get my family, Mer."

She smiles wryly. "What's wrong with your nephew?"

"Nothing a little rehab can't fix."

She raises her eyebrows. "Oh, no. How old-"

"Fifteen."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." He doesn't share Amy's description of the addiction gene running through their family. It seems imprudent when his hands are roaming over soft skin where their son – their son who will be one quarter Maloney – is growing.

"Did your nephew do that to you?"

Meredith is pointing at the livid bruise already standing out on his shin. "Jesse? No, that was one of my nieces and her excellent tennis forehand."

Meredith nods slowly. "Oh."

"She was trying to defend her sister – yes, from me, long story – then the other one ended up getting clocked in the face by my nephew."

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah. She's a tough kid." He grimaces, leaving his own part in Joy's injuries out for now.

"And your nephew?"

"They're going to get him help. It's on them now; Amy and I bowed out." _Before Nancy could kill her,_ he doesn't add.

"That sounds … like way too much for one day," Meredith pronounces.

"I agree. And your day? How was Viv … really, I mean?"

"Really?" Meredith pauses. "Really … I think she's going to need some serious therapy if she doesn't already, but she was very sweet with Zola. Patient. They played well together."

"Therapy?"

"She … might have locked herself in our bedroom for a while."

Derek shakes his head.

"And she has a lot to say about dead babies."

"I can't believe she has a lot to say about anything, to be honest," Derek says. "I don't think I've heard her string together more than three words, but Mark says she doesn't like new people. Amy was surprised she went with you."

"I think she really went with Zola and I was just a bystander, but … I think we connected. A little. Maybe."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Meredith glances at him. "And I talked to Mark for a while. When he came to pick her up."

"How'd that go?"

"He seems to think he's a terrible person … but I don't think he is."

"Ah. So it's not just the Shepherds you understand … it's Mark too." He massages her scalp and she practically purrs in response. Tension and soap bubbles run together down the drain.

"Mark's in a tough spot," Derek acknowledges.

"Yeah." Meredith sighs. "He thinks he's losing his wife and she could stop it if she wanted but she refuses," she summarizes, adding, "their situation sucks."

"It really does."

"Nancy's too." Meredith winces. "Poor Jesse. And the girls, too."

"I think I'm afraid to have teenagers," Derek admits.

"I think I'm afraid to have cancer," Meredith responds.

She leans against him, he holds her tightly and they stand under the spray, recuperating together.

* * *

 _To be continued._ _Finally, the McFamily is reunited! Long days all around. Coming up soon: dealing with Kathleen's run in with Mark, Addison makes a reappearance (finally!) and poor Carolyn Shepherd gets some post-surgery attention after taking a backseat to the other drama. Thank you again, so much, for reading. You are all wonderful and your reviews don't just make me smile - they make me prolific. I mean, maybe too much so, because my chapters are quite long ... but there you go. My author's notes are even longer. Still reading? You RULE. Gonna review? You rule even more. You know you want to press that button ..._


	22. stay right where you are

**A/N** Hola. I have not learned to cut my word count for these chapters but I swear I'm trying. That said, I'm going to have to take a few days away from this story so here's a nice long meaty chapter to keep you going. Thank you SO much for the reviews; I read, appreciate, and consider every single one of them.

* * *

 _stay right where you are_  
...

* * *

"Daddy's back!"

Zola's squeal of joy cuts into a surprisingly pleasant dream, but the sweet face Meredith sees when she opens her eyes makes it worth it.

"Good morning to you too, Zozo."

"Daddy's back," she tells Meredith again, pushing excitedly at the sheet covering her mother.

"Careful, sweetie." Derek tugs Zola down to cuddle with them. "Remember, that's your baby brother in there."

Zola reaches over to pat Meredith's belly. "I know," she says confidently, then settles back down between her parents. Moments later she pops back up again.

"You going to work?"

Meredith exchanges a glance with Derek. The answer to that question is so rarely _no._

But that's the answer today.

Zola's look of sheer delight makes her throat feel tight with guilt, and she can tell Derek notices. He doesn't say anything, and after a few sleepy snuggles they're moving around the kitchen with half-awake morning efficiency, Meredith brewing coffee while Derek washes blueberries for Zola's cereal.

"Did you have fun with your friend yesterday?" Derek asks.

Zola nods enthusiastically. "Vivi has a yellow swimsuit," she reports with a level of intensity one usually expects for announcements of nuclear proliferation.

" _No_." Derek feigns shock. "I don't believe you."

"She does!" Zola bounces in her chair. "Mama …" She glances at Meredith for support.

"You're right, Zozo, she does have a yellow swimsuit."

Meredith pours a second cup of coffee, and Zola thrusts her spoon back into her bowl with gusto.

"Are you finished, sweetie?"

"I don't want to get dressed!"

Zola's sudden passion surprises both of them. She shoves her pink plastic bowl of cheerios to the floor, leftover milk splattering in an upwards arc all the way to her dangling little feet.

"Zo … if you're finished, you can say _I'm all done,_ or _please take my bowl_ or … anything that isn't your bowl on the floor." Derek lifts her down from her chair. "Can you help me clean up this mess, please?"

Zola sits on her haunches with the dishtowel Derek provided, not really helping much but not protesting either, which seems fair. She picks up the few remaining cheerios floating down the tile.

"All clean," she says proudly.

"What's the plan for today?" Meredith leans against the counter.

Derek stands with Zola in his arms, looking pensive. "I should go see my mother. After yesterday's …" He glances at their daughter. "…chaos, she's probably wondering why she didn't see me."

"Have you heard anything more from Nancy?"

He shakes his head. "Nancy's private, when it comes to things like this – not that there's really been any _thing like this,_ but … you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean." Meredith reaches out to stroke on of Zola's soft cheeks. "What do you think Mark's doing with Vivian today?"

Derek glances at her. "Maybe she's with Amy. Or at the hospital. I'm not sure."

"It just seems like such a shame to have her stuck in the hospital."

"I'm sure he agrees, but from what he was seeing Vivian doesn't want to be anywhere else."

"She didn't mind being here."

Derek raises his eyebrows. "One day wrangling her and you could barely wake up this morning."

"Maybe it would get easier."

"Or it might get harder." Derek pauses. "I love that you want to help," he says quietly. "But I get the sense that Vivian has a lot of –"

"Down," Zola interrupts, wriggling in his arms, and he sets her on her feet. She trots into the living room and begins stacking the pastel building blocks they brought from home.

They're low on a few things; Meredith makes a quick run to the deli while he sits on the floor to play with Zola, but no sooner has he lowered himself to the ground than the doorman buzzes. He checks his watch – it's still very early.

"I figured you'd be up. I've had toddlers of my own, you know." Kathleen beams at Zola and bustles past Derek. "I brought her a little present."

"Little?" Derek takes a step back. His sister is weighed down by a bright pink child-sized shopping cart and a worryingly massive bag of what looks like little plastic food items.

Zola shrieks with delight when she sees what her aunt is holding.

"I guess she likes it." Kathleen grins.

"Kath, you shouldn't have."

"I think your daughter would disagree."

"We have to fly across the country in a week."

"It's plastic junk. Just leave it here or donate it." Kathleen shrugs. "Look, I'm just getting to spoil her now, so give me a break, would you please?"

"Okay. I will." Derek leans over to kiss her cheek. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Kathleen adjusts the collar of her shirt.

Zola is busy filling the cart with an assortment of items: a stuffed piglet, half a dozen plastic hot dogs, a handful of pastel building blocks, a soft-bodied baby doll with an open pink mouth meant to take a bottle, several hard little toy people, and one of Meredith's socks. She pushes the cart with great ceremony across the apartment, dumps its contents out on the floor, and then begins determinedly to fill it up again.

"I think it's safe to say your present is a hit."

He can tell Kath is feeling self-conscious about their conversation in the car. It's half guilt, half bribe, but still the present has Zola written all over it and it's hard to feel anything too negative when his daughter is charging through the apartment pushing a bright pink cart of totally unrelated objects.

Not when she looks so happy about it.

Kathleen waits until Zola has made another circuit across the room. "Derek … are you going to answer my question about Mark and MCH?"

"You saw him."

"Yes. I told _you_ that. You know what's going on, don't you."

Derek doesn't answer.

"So you weren't watching her kid?"

Derek blinks.

"Vivian," Kathleen prompts, just as Zola returns to their side of the living room.

"Vivi's my friend!" Zola beams, with no clue of her unfortunate timing.

"Et tu, Brute?" Derek shakes his head.

"Look, Derek, why are you being so secretive?"

"I'm not."

"You've been gone for years," Kathleen says. "Mark … Addison … they aren't your friends."

He doesn't know how to answer that.

"Addison's sick. Isn't she."

Derek glances at his sister.

"It's that or their kid but I'd expect them to go to Children's for that."

It's such a blunt breakdown of the facts that Derek has no real choice but to nod.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"She doesn't want people to know."

"But you know."

Derek shrugs.

"We started out trying to figure out what was going on with them together," Kathleen reminds him. "Now you're … with them, and not telling us what's going on?"

"It's not like that, Kath. There are no … sides."

Kathleen shakes her head. "Derek, there are always sides. Even if you choose not to see it that way. It doesn't make you _noble_ , it makes you naïve."

Her tone is gentle, even friendly, but he resents her words. Zola circles back then and he bites his tongue.

"Hi, Aunt Kathy!" Zola stops in front of them, smiling broadly. "Put something in my basket," she demands.

"Please," Derek prompts.

"Put something in my basket _please,_ " Zola says, holding out her hand.

"Of course, sweetheart." Kathy glances around for something, then reaches into her shoulder bag and pulls out a tube of lipstick. Zola's eyes light up.

"Kath…"

"She's not going to use it, she's just putting it in the cart," Kathleen says, handing the tube to Zola.

Derek sighs. Arguing with his sisters has always exhausted him, and yesterday might have been enough for a lifetime, so he doesn't push it.

Kathleen does, though.

"Was Amy really on a consult? Is she even working? Is she covering for something? Derek," Kathleen's voice lowers even further, "is she _using_ again?"

"No," he says hastily.

"How can you be sure?"

He's trapped like a bug because what can he say? _I just spent the day with her secretly, and I think I would know._ That's not going to fly.

"How about you, Derek? Were you really consulting yesterday? You were gone all day."

"Drop it, Kath."

Hurt flashes across her face.

"You came here to see Mom. Ostensibly," she adds, her voice cold. "So maybe you could spend some time with her."

"I plan to."

"Good." Kathleen fusses with the clasp of her bracelet for a moment. "Well. I should get going."

"Please tell Mom I'll see her later this morning," Derek says in a gentler tone. "And thank you, for staying with her."

"You don't have to thank me," she sniffs.

"Okay. I won't." He smiles at her, but can't quite get one in return. But he knows who probably can. "Zo?" He calls. "Come say bye to Aunt Kathy."

Zola trots out immediately, pushing her pink plastic cart and bearing a long red painted streak across her little face.

Derek grimaces. "What was that about her not using the lipstick?"

"She must off the charts on small motor," Kathleen protests. "Lily couldn't open a lipstick until at _least_ kindergarten. And then she…" Kathleen's expression changes. "Well. You should probably check out the walls in the other room."

"Kath!"

"Sorry," she says, fusses over Zola briefly, and then makes a hasty exit just as Meredith returns from the deli; they greet each other in passing and Derek takes the bags from his wife's arms while Zola runs up to greet her.

"Derek?"

He leans out of the kitchen, where he's been putting away Meredith's purchases. "Yeah?"

"Why is our baby wearing lipstick?"

"Not a baby," Zola interrupts.

"Because my sister gave her one to hold," he admits.

"Ah. Is that also why there's lipstick on the … walls?" Meredith shakes her head. "How expensive was the security deposit?"

"Not expensive enough," Derek says. He lifts Zola into his arms once all the perishables are refrigerated. "Come on, Zozo, let's get you cleaned up." He pauses, turning to Meredith. "How do you get lipstick off, anyway? Water? Do you need that … stuff?"

Meredith grins. "You married the wrong woman if you're looking for answers to that sort of question."

"Good point." Derek leans over for a quick kiss on his way to the bathroom. "By the way … " He turns back. "I definitely married the right woman."

Meredith smirks. "The right woman is going to try to make these walls white again … so wish her luck."

…

"How's my little granddaughter?"

Carolyn asks the question before Derek is even fully in the room.

"Which one?" Derek teases, pleased to see his mother's focus is on Zola and not on Derek's – and Amy's – absence yesterday.

"Well. There's only one who's still little," Carolyn says fondly. She's doing well, Derek can tell, with color in her cheeks and progress on her charts.

"She would say she's not little," he tells his mother.

"When she's as old as I am … she'll realize she was."

"Zola is … great. She likes the apartment, I think."

"It's not too small, after living in that great big house?"

"The house isn't that big." He pauses. "And the apartment lets her just … track from room to room with her new grocery cart. Thanks to Kathleen."

"Those make the best presents." Carolyn nods approvingly. "Is Zola ready for a roommate?"

Derek looks up, surprised. "Are you ready to be discharged? Kath didn't say-"

"Not quite yet. Tomorrow, or the day after."

It feels … soon. "She's ready whenever you are. I'm glad you're doing so well."

"It was a very minor surgery, honey, you know that. You didn't have to fly all the way out here for it."

Derek tries to imagine his sisters' reactions if he didn't. But more than that … he thinks about the loss he would feel if he hadn't been able to introduce Zola and re-introduce Meredith to his family.

"You couldn't have kept us away," he says firmly, and his mother looks pleased.

…

"Where are we going?" Zola asks again.

"You'll see." Meredith smiles at her as they make slow and rather sweaty progress along the steamy sidewalk.

"Surprise?" Zola pulls on her hand.

"Yes, a surprise. You want to ride in the stroller, Zo?"

"No," Zola says firmly, so Meredith continues to push the lightweight carriage … into which is strapped Zola's baby doll, bottle of pretend orange juice sticking garishly out of her mouth. No one blinks an eye as they pass on the sidewalk, which she appreciates.

It's hot. Hot and humid and … something else she's forgotten after too many years away from east coast summers. And the air in Manhattan is so dense, pressed together by all the buildings. They're not exactly in a welcoming neighborhood; it's a bit like a wind tunnel … with no wind, just warmth.

She stops to swipe a hand across her perspiring forehead. They're almost there.

She checks the address again, then stops at a large building.

"Here? Are we here?"

Meredith nods.

"It's my surprise?"

"It's your surprise. But we have to go inside."

Meredith folds up the stroller, and hands Zola her baby. Zola carries her delicately by one ankle as they walk through the door.

"You're the one who called," the concierge greets her, and Meredith nods.

"You want to see it?"

She nods again.

The air-conditioned lobby gives way as they walk down the hall to heated swirls of chemically-scented air, and then they reach two large glass doors.

"It's a _pool!_ " Zola's face lights up and the concierge smiles at her expression.

"It's a pool," Meredith agrees. "A big one."

"So big," Zola breathes happily, staring at the vast rectangle of water, interrupted only by a sole lap swimmer in a designated lane. "Is it a secret?"

"Not a secret exactly, but I didn't know about it until the nice man who works in our building helped me find it." Meredith kisses Zola's cheek. "I told him you like to swim."

"Can we swim now?"

"Not right now, because we're not dressed for it. I wanted to check it out first. And I want to tell Daddy what our plan is, and _you_ need some floaties."

"I have floaties!"

"They're at home though, sweetie. You need some here."

"Okay," Zola says agreeably.

Meredith discusses logistics with the concierge before they head back to the chill of the air-conditioned lobby and then the humid sidewalk outside.

They stop at the corner, waiting to cross the street, and Zola tugs on her hand.

"Know what, Mommy?"

"What?"

"I think Vivi likes to swim too," Zola says, peering back over her shoulder as if she can still make out the glistening blue pool.

"You know what, Zozo?"

"What?"

"That's just what Mommy was thinking, too."

…

Derek's not that surprised to see Mark and his daughter in the cafeteria when he takes a break from his mother's room for a cup of coffee. Somehow they seem to be on the same schedule, and Mark doesn't seem to think it's strange either, just lifting a hand in something a bit too exhausted to be called a wave.

When Derek reaches them, Mark immediately starts thanking him profusely for Meredith's baby-sitting yesterday.

Derek studies the sullen-looking little girl as Mark speaks, trying to see anything of the sweetness Meredith illustrated when she was describing her interactions with Zola. Vivian is wearing scuffed slip-on sneakers today; she's eyeing the rubber strips on the toes and ignoring both adults.

"Meredith is an angel," Mark is declaring. "A lifesaver. A …" He pauses. "I'm running out of words."

"I get the general idea. I know she's glad she could help, and Zola had a good time with Vivian."

Mark's daughter glances up at the mention of Zola's name, and Derek braves addressing her directly.

"Did you have a nice time with Zola yesterday, Vivian?"

Vivian looks up at him for only a moment, nods very slightly, and then leans against Mark's side and turns her face away.

"She's a little shy," Mark shrugs. "Vivi … this is Zola's dad, remember? You met him the other day."

Vivian doesn't respond.

"How's – " Derek stops abruptly at Mark's expression, before he can say _Addison._ "… everything?" he finishes lamely.

Mark looks tense.

"Amy's with her."

Vivian isn't as checked out as she seemed, apparently, because she cottons on to what they're saying quickly.

"I want to see Mommy," she says, tugging on Mark's hand.

Her voice is husky like she doesn't use it often – maybe she doesn't.

"In a little bit." Mark strokes the top of her head. Vivian's long hair is loose and tangled around her, giving her a rather wild look.

Mark pulls out a chair at one of the little round tables.

"Viv … can you just sit here for a minute, baby, just while I talk to Derek?"

Derek hears the beginning of a protest.

"Here." Mark fishes in his omnipresent canvas bag and thrusts a tablet into her small hands. "You can play Stubborn Foxes."

"I don't want to."

"Okay, then just hold it. I'll be right over there. Three minutes, okay? Don't move," he adds.

Vivian throws Derek a dark look, apparently blaming him for her confinement, which he supposes is understandable given the circumstances. He smiles at her and she looks away, grasping the sleeping tablet with both hands.

"She's, uh, she's meeting with the surgeon today," Mark says when they've moved out of earshot next to a pillar, still keeping an eye on Vivian. "Well – the other one. The specialist." Mark's tone is quiet, with a hint of bitterness.

"Is she … "

"Having surgery? She's … _considering_ it." There's more than a hint of bitterness now.

"What does that –"

"What does that mean? It means she's going to put us all through hell again and then change her mind at the last minute." Mark's face is drawn, his hollow cheeks making Derek a little nervous. This gaunt version of Mark is so different from what he remembers. Despite what he knows is going on below the surface, he's pretty sure Mark looks considerably worse than Addison does.

"I'm sorry," Derek says for lack of anything better to say.

"Yeah, me too." Mark glances toward Vivian, who is poking listlessly at the black screen of the tablet. "I don't mean to unload."

"You probably _should_ unload," Derek says carefully, "to someone, or-"

"She wants to see Meredith," Mark says abruptly, cutting him off.

Derek's eyes widen. "She … Addison, you mean?"

Mark nods.

"Oh."

"Is it…"

"It's not up to me," Derek says hastily. "It's, uh, I'm sure it's fine. It's just a matter of … you know, childcare, my mother, sorting out the logistics and …" His voice trails off. Mark's logistics have been brutal for the last few months; his can't compare.

So Addison wants to talk to Meredith.

It's not that surprising – Meredith has just spent practically an entire day with Addison's daughter, it makes sense she'd want to talk to her.

And Meredith can make her own decisions, so Derek texts her as he said he would, planning to meet up with her and Zola, and he'll tell her then.

It's just that the tension and fear swirling around Mark, Addison, and their daughter is … palpable. More than palpable; it feels contagious, almost, like it sticks to his skin every time he interacts with one of them. He'd like to wash it off. And Mark's gaunt face and Vivian's sullen one, the strangeness clinging to both of them, makes clear it's not that easy to wash off.

Meredith spent an entire day with Vivian yesterday, and she's not exactly an easy child, from everything Derek has seen. Does Meredith really need to spend more time involving herself with more pain and dysfunction?

It's not up to him. It's up to Meredith.

But he knows what she'll choose.

It's one of the things he loves about her.

…

"…hi."

Okay. So Meredith's secret is that she's not crazy about sick people.

Not as patients. As patients, they're great. Even when they're not great, they're great. It's sick people she knows who give her that feeling of unease. Who remind her of her mother's illnesses – the one that changed her, the one that killed her, and the first one.

The one that almost destroyed her.

For some reason, seeing her mother-in-law didn't bother her at all. But there's something about Addison's pale face that makes her stomach twist.

Maybe it's all the time she spent with Vivian yesterday.

Addison looks different from the wedding, that's for sure; sitting up in bed in the hospital room that's supposed to look homey, she's not wearing makeup and her hair is loose around her shoulders and she looks … tired, but other than that, she looks … well, almost normal. And she greets Meredith warmly, like they're meeting for tea instead of in a hospital bed, asking her how she feels and directing her to a chair.

"I wanted to thank you, so much, for taking care of my daughter yesterday," Addison says when Meredith's seated.

"It was my pleasure," Meredith responds automatically. "She was really sweet with my daughter, and we enjoyed having her."

"Derek showed me pictures of Zola," Addison says, her expression soft. "She's adorable."

"Thank you. We think so."

"Viv was very taken with her." Addison looks away for a moment, resting her hand on her midsection. Meredith glances down, realizing she's sitting in the same position.

Their eyes meet.

"How far along are you?" Addison asks.

"Fifteen weeks," Meredith says quietly.

"So am I. Do you know what you're having?"

"A boy."

"Same." Addison looks down at her hands. "I was glad, when I found out. I want to think boys are tougher … it's sexist, isn't it? And not supported by any science, and my girl is the one who … but anyway." Her voice trails off, her hand resting on her midsection again, through the blanket that covers her to the waist. "He'll have to be tough," she says softly.

"I'm sorry," Meredith blurts. "I mean, I can't imagine the position you're in and … I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Addison studies her hands again, and Meredith sees a flash of metals on her left hand. "I take it that Mark … talked to you."

Meredith isn't sure how to respond.

"I don't mean to burden you, Meredith."

"You're not." Meredith pauses.

"Viv said you were very kind to her," Addison says quietly. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. She's not having a very easy time of it."

"Of course. She's a great." Meredith pauses, then decides to go for it. "Vivian, um, she mentioned she likes to swim, and I've been looking for things to do with Zola, you know, during the day, and there's this pool at the Alliance pretty close by. I was thinking Viv could come with us … I mean, if it's okay with you."

Meredith stops talking, noticing that Addison looks teary. She's confused: Addison was stoic throughout all of the weighty parts of their conversation, so far, and now, at the thought of a swimming pool … ?

"I'm sorry," Addison says, drawing a deep breath that seems to tire her. "It's just … been a while since anyone asked my permission for Viv to do something."

"Oh. I didn't mean to –"

"No, I'm glad you did. I'm her mother. Even if I'm not … doing much these days except upsetting her-"

"That's not true," Meredith says automatically.

"-I'm still her mother."

"I know."

Addison starts to say something else and then freezes, her head slightly cocked. Meredith eyes her, wondering if something is wrong.

"Addison …?" she asks tentatively.

The other woman looks at her. "Give me your hand," she proposes.

Meredith complies, and Addison's surprisingly large hand wraps around Meredith comparatively small wrist and moves her palm to her own midsection.

Meredith has to lean slightly forward to do this.

"I don't know if you can feel it," Addison says, sounding almost apologetic. "I might be more sensitive to it, but-"

"I felt it!" Meredith exclaims before she can censor herself, as something moves under her hand.

Addison smiles. "So it's not just me then."

"It's not just you." Meredith pauses. "Does he … have a name yet?"

A shadow crosses Addison's pale face. Before she can answer there's a knock on the door, and then it's pushed open to reveal Amy hand in hand with Vivian, who pulls away immediately and covers the space toward her mother's bedside.

Meredith notices she's walking in that fast-rushed way children do when they've been instructed not to run, and for some reason it makes her sad.

"There's my girl." Addison looks happier than Meredith has seen her, and when she looks down Viv's normally pensive little face is lit up with the first true smile Meredith has seen.

"I missed you," Addison says, as Vivian starts to climb onto the bed.

Meredith glances at Amy questioningly, but she's already out the door. This seems to be routine; there's no reason for her to intervene and sure enough Viv monkeys her way onto the high bed easily before cuddling into her mother's waiting arms.

Meredith feels awkward to be present for this reunion, and pushes her chair back as quietly as she can so she can leave. The squeak against the polished floors draws the attention of both figures on the bed.

"Thank you for coming, Meredith," Addison says quietly. "Vivi…" She presses her lips against her daughter's head. "Did you say hello?"

Viv turns the slightest bit. "Hi," she says, adding: "Where's Zola?"

"She's with her dad right now." Meredith smiles at Viv. "She's hoping to play with you again soon."

"Okay," Viv says, not taking her eyes off her mother.

"I'll, uh, I'll leave you two alone," Meredith says. She stands up and says faint good-byes neither seems to hear; each is too consumed by the other.

"Leave it," Amy instructs from the hallway as Meredith starts to close the door. "Halfway is fine," she adds.

Meredith complies, her face perhaps betraying her curiosity.

"Mark insists." Meredith can't read the expression on Amy's face. "Ever since … never mind."

Amy looks at Meredith more closely. "So. I see it went well in there."

Meredith glances at her. "What do you-"

"Oh, you just have the look," Amy says airily.

"The look?"

"Like someone hit you with a baseball bat. Right there." Amy points to Meredith's midsection. "I mean, if you weren't pregnant."

Meredith, slightly discomfited, is trying to follow.

"It's a gut punch, that's what I'm saying," Amy explains. "Talking to her."

"To Addison."

Amy nods.

"You spend so much time with her," Meredith points out.

"I have a high tolerance for gut punches." Amy shrugs. "I have stories I can tell you someday. They go best with tequila."

"I can't drink right now," Meredith says apologetically.

"Neither can I. Well, except _ever_ instead of _right now._ Just saying." Amy shrugs, then leans back against the wall. "Derek told you about yesterday …?" Her voice trails off.

Meredith nods. "It sounds … challenging."

"Yeah, that's a tasteful way to put it." Amy studies Meredith for a second. "You don't seem too freaked out by me."

"Should I be?"

"The only other time I met you, I took a full-gainer into a wedding cake and then got arrested."

"First impressions," Meredith shrugs, and is rewarded with a toothy grin.

Meredith's gaze flickers toward Addison's room. "You're doing a lot for her."

"For Addison?" Amy shrugs. "It's not a lot. Not for her."

Meredith is silent.

"Addie's like my sister. More of a sister than the other ones were, after a point, anyway." Amy pauses. "It makes my mom happy to see us all together, you know? And she's a great mom, so she deserves it, but … all five of us in one room is just one big powder keg." Amy studies her face before continuing. "With Derek on the west coast it hasn't really been a thing, but … here we all are, now and … well, I guess it's a good thing you already signed all the legal stuff before you came out here."

Actually, Derek proposed all the legal stuff right after her first interaction with the Shepherd clan, but Meredith doesn't mention that, and Amy doesn't ask.

"And you're having another kid," Amy adds.

"We're having another kid." Meredith rests a hand on the small swell of her belly.

"I'm glad Derek's happy."

"So am I," Meredith says.

For a moment they're both quiet, then Meredith's gaze flickers into the half-open room again, the shades of pale pink and warm cream, the faux-coziness slicking over real illness.

"Vivian seems close to you," Meredith says tentatively.

"Yeah. I mean, I don't know that she would be, if not for …" Amy stops talking. "Water under the … bridge," she says finally, as if she's having trouble remembering the final word of the expression. "Viv wasn't like this, before, but I think everything that happened with Addison freaked her out. The first baby…" Amy shakes her head. "Addison just kept wanting more transfers, and Mark wanted her to stop … it was a bad scene."

Meredith's not sure if she should be hearing this, and says something to that effect.

Amy regards her calmly. "You're family."

"Oh," Meredith says, for lack of anything better to say.

"Mark was like our brother, growing up. Another big brother for me, another kid brother for my sisters." Amy looks thoughtful. "It was screwed up," she says after a moment. "What they did. I mean, I'm the biggest screw-up of them all, so I would know."

"It was a long time ago," Meredith says.

"I didn't think they would get married," Amy continues, as if Meredith hasn't weighed in. "Is that awful to say? Things were just so _crazy_ , you know, after Derek left, but then they kind of settled down and they were pretty domestic for a while, they had the baby, that big house …" Her voice trails off. "You don't want to hear this, do you."

"It's okay."

Amy's silent for a moment, studying Meredith's face again in that unnerving way. "Viv went with you," she says finally.

Meredith nods.

"She won't even stay with the nanny."

"I think Zola was the real attraction," Meredith says quietly.

Amy considers this. "Still, Viv doesn't exactly connect with a lot of adults right now."

 _Connect._ Is that what they did?

"My life was a little … hectic, when I was her age," Meredith says slowly.

"Ah." Amy nods. "I get it. Mine too."

Meredith glances at her, then does a quick calculation. Amy must have been around Vivian's age when their father died. She sees the moment Amy sees it in her eyes and understands when she changes the subject.

"Thank you," Amy says, "for what you did for Viv."

"I'd like to do more," Meredith says hesitantly. "See her more, I mean. It was nice for Zola to have company, and Viv shouldn't be stuck in the hospital. Not when she's not with her mother, I mean."

Meredith glances into the room again through the half-open door. Vivian is curled up on the bed next to her mother, their heads inclined toward each other. They're both awake; Meredith can see their mouths moving as they speak quietly to each other. One of Addison's hands is in Vivian's long hair, very slowly working through some of the tangles.

"You okay?"

Meredith blinks, focusing on Amy.

"Yeah." She presses a hand to her midsection. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure?" Amy scans her nervously. "You want me to call Derek?"

"No, no, it's fine."

"Addie could look at you. She's kind of a genius with pregnant woman. Well, except herself." Amy wrinkles her nose at her own bluntness. "Sorry, I'm still working on that filter thing. And I'm – I kind of babble when I'm nervous, and you're kind of making me nervous so ... you want her to look?"

"That's definitely not necessary." She breaths in carefully, then out. "Thank you, though."

Meredith leans against the wall, breathing slowly, trying to count and tuning out whatever Amy says next.

But when she closes her eyes she still sees the pink and cream hospital room with its deceptively homey decorations – except it's not Addison in bed, whispering to Vivian. It's Meredith herself, Zola in her arms, her son growing in her belly.

Having to choose.

Not able to choose.

"Meredith?"

Amy's worried face swims into her consciousness. "Meredith, you look … _green_ , I'm gonna call someone. Hang on, okay?"

"No, it's just –"

"Meredith!"

* * *

 _To be continued (of course.)_

 _I'm not (that much of a) sadist so please keep reading if you don't like cliffhangers. And please STOP reading if you do. And whichever you prefer, pretty please review and share your lovely thoughts, thank you!_

 _Okay?_

 _You have been warned._

 _Spoilers ahead_

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 _Meredith and the McBaby are FINE. I promise. So I know that and you know that but no one IN the story knows it, which is how it should be. I can't believe I solved my own cliff; I am REALLY going soft. You know how you can thank me? Reviewwwwws. #shameless. xoxo_

…


	23. girl in amber

**A/N: You are all the serious best.** Thank you so much for the reviews, PMs, and sticking with this story even though I've had to reduce the speed of my updates. Here's a very long chapter in the meantime. RL is busy like a bee right now, but I am not forgetting this story or any of my others. I hope you'll keep reading ... and I appreciate you all so much!

* * *

 _girl in amber  
_...

* * *

 _I didn't pass out._

It's her rallying cry. Well, somewhere between a rallying cry and a security blanket. She says it multiple times to Derek, who appears white-faced above her and keeps skimming his fingers over her as if to convince himself she's real.

She repeats it to Nancy, who fixes her with a warm brown stare and assures her she's fine.

Which she knows.

Of course she's fine. She _didn't pass out._

She's propped on a bed anyway. Derek is holding her hand so tightly she can feel his pulse fluttering against hers.

"I'm fine," she tells him.

He looks at Nancy for confirmation, which is slightly annoying.

"She's fine, Derek," Nancy says calmly, "but why don't the two of you come to my office and we can –"

A knock on the door interrupts her offer.

Meredith sees Nancy's eyes widen taking in who's there, but she seems to take it in stride.

"Mark," Nancy says, her tone surprisingly warm. He nods greeting to her.

"Viv wanted to make sure you're okay." Mark looks from Derek to Meredith, sounding a little embarrassed.

"Hey, Viv." Meredith smiles at the little girl. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm fine."

Vivian is shying away, leaning against Mark, but also squinting with some concern at Meredith.

"See, Viv, I told you." Mark nudges her gently with his knee. "She's fine."

Vivian doesn't seem convinced; she looks at Meredith again.

"Is your baby okay too?" Vivian asks in her gravelly little voice.

Meredith feels her throat tighten. "Yeah, my baby's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

Mark looks pained. Nancy steps in.

"I'm sure too, Vivian. And I'm a baby doctor," she says, smiling at Vivian, "so I _know_ the baby's fine."

Vivian looks at Nancy, then back at her father.

"Can I go see Mommy?" She pulls at Mark's hand.

"I can take her," Amy offers.

Mark nods, and the three of them leave after wishing Meredith well.

Nancy meets her eyes when the door closes behind the others. "That's one anxious kid."

"She's going through a lot," Meredith says, not sure why she feels compelled to defend her. She sees that Derek is studying Nancy's face but she can't quite read his expression.

"It's always something with Addison and Mark," Nancy says. In another time her tone might have seemed affectionate, but there's an edge to it now that makes Meredith uncomfortable.

"Nancy," Derek begins.

"Maybe she wouldn't look so freaked out if they didn't keep her at the hospital all the time," Nancy suggests.

"She wants to be with her mother."

"Well, that's just-"

" _Nancy._ " Derek shakes his head at her. "Drop it."

Nancy raises her eyes to the heavens. "Fine. I'm going to tell the girls what I'm doing and then I'll meet you in the lobby."

 _The girls._ Meredith assumes this means her sisters.

When they're alone she turns to Derek, but he starts speaking first. "Sorry. Nancy can be … a bit judgmental."

"I thought she and Addison were close."

"They used to be." Derek says. "Before … " and she thinks he'll say something about the affair or the divorce but he says, "before Amy."

Meredith considers this for a moment.

"Vivian seems to like you," Derek says.

"You could say we bonded a little." Meredith pauses.

"She was worried about you," Derek says.

"Yeah, well, I passed out in front of a kid with sick-mommy issues – sick _pregnant_ mommy issues."

"Wait … I thought you didn't pass out."

"I didn't-" Meredith sees the twinkle in his eyes. "Fine, I passed out. Barely."

…

Meredith has the rather amusing thought, as they pull up at Nancy's office building, that at this point her sister-in-law – it sounds strange to call her that, but also _not_ strange – is pretty much her obstetrician.

"Just to be absolutely sure," Derek said when she hesitated to go with Nancy, and he and Zola accompanied her. Zola missed the drama earlier, cocooned with Derek's sisters, but she seems to have picked up on the undercurrent of anxiety and she clings to Derek as they walk through the waiting room with its muted pinks and ivories and swell-bellied pregnant women in soft chairs flipping through magazines or scrolling their devices.

The exam room where Nancy leads them is large and looks comfortable – or at least the couch where Derek settles with Zola does. Zola looks up with interest when Meredith adjusts her clothing to let Nancy run the transducer over the slight rise of her belly.

"He looks perfect," Nancy assures her before she can ask. "I knew he would. But sometimes it's nice to see, isn't it? Just to remind you?"

Meredith tamps down a flickering thought of Addison, her pregnancy at the same stage as Meredith's.

"it's nice to see," she echoes. "Thank you."

Derek is standing now, and she watches as he tries to set Zola on the couch but she hangs on tightly. Carrying her with him, he studies the screen, and then Nancy's face.

"Everything's fine?"

"Everything's _fine_ , Derek." Nancy glances at Zola for a moment. "Healthy mama, healthy baby. Look … you're not first-time parents but this _is_ a first-time pregnancy. Which means you get license to be a little nuts."

"I'm not _nuts_."

"If you say so." Nancy moves the wand again. "Your son looks perfect."

"You hear that?" Derek frees a hand and strokes Meredith's hair. "Our son looks perfect."

She can't help smiling back at him – and at their daughter, who looks pretty perfect too, and who is currently watching Nancy and Meredith with interest.

"Zozo." Meredith gestures to her. "Do you want to see the baby?"

Zola looks interested. "Where's the baby?"

"Right there, sweetheart," Nancy smiles at her niece and uses her pointer to indicate the spot on the screen where –

"That's not a _baby_ ," Zola says indignantly.

"That's your baby brother," Derek assures her.

"No, silly," Zola giggles.

"The baby is still growing right now." Derek kisses the top of her head. "He's really little now, but he will look like a baby when he's ready to be born."

Zola looks doubtful.

"Everything's great. Try to eat regular meals and try to reduce stress." Nancy rolls her eyes slightly at her own words. "I know I'm telling you that while you're … in the belly of the beast. So just reduce stress as much as you can."

…

This time, when they cross through the waiting room, Nancy points out a large tank along the wall where the receptionists sit.

"Fish are supposed to help you relax," she tells Meredith.

"Fishies!" Zola shrieks excitedly.

"I guess they only help adults relax." Nancy winks at them as Meredith follows Zola to the tank.

Their daughter is pointing at each of the fish, demanding that Meredith name them, and Derek moves closer to Nancy's side when his wife and daughter are out of earshot.

"How's Jesse?"

"He's fine," Nancy says, as if Derek's paying a social call. He's a little unnerved by her casual tone, but then again she's at work. He presses on.

"So you, uh, you found a place?" He's keeping his voice quiet, but Nancy doesn't shush him. She looks somewhat disengaged, in fact.

"We found a counselor," she says, not looking at him.

"A counselor." He's confused. Does that mean … ?

"You didn't send him to rehab," he realizes.

When she glances up at him he can see the answer in her eyes.

"Nancy..."

" _Derek_." Nancy fixes him with a serious gaze. "No one knows my children better than I do. I know what's best for them."

"He needs help," Derek says softly.

"He's getting help."

"Inpatient help."

"This isn't your area," Nancy says.

"Nancy, I saw him," Derek says insistently.

"And I gave birth to him." Nancy props a hand on her hip. "Look, Derek … I know you're a father now. And I can tell you're a great father, I really can. But you've only been a father for a couple of years. I've been a mother for more than twenty."

Nancy's jaw is stubbornly set. He knows this expression well. Jesse's wild eyes come into focus, the way he shouted his apologies for hitting Joy, the prescription pads in his nieces' drawer.

With a start he realizes he's not even sure Nancy knows about that.

"Nance," he says quietly. "Amy – "

He's going to say something like _Amy and I found …_ but he doesn't have the chance to form the words before Nancy cuts him off.

But she's surprisingly soft voiced considering she's talking about Amy. "I know she was trying to help. She's just wrong." She glances at Derek. "Look, I'm not going to … report her or anything."

Derek blinks. "Did you get Joy checked out?"

Annoyance flashes across her face, but she schools it. "Of course. Steve took her. Her CT was clear. She's fine other than complaining that her nose is crooked now. It's not," Nancy adds, "but we told her she can have plastic surgery when she's sixteen if she needs it."

"Oh good. So you're all set then." He can't seem to help a sarcastic tone.

She has no time to retort, though, because Meredith is rejoining them with Zola.

"Since I'm already here, I'm going to put in a few hours." Nancy gestures vaguely around her at her office. "The paperwork is just building up…"

But Derek has the feeling she wouldn't be so quick to hustle them out if he hadn't brought up Jesse.

She turns to her brother. "You're going back to the hospital?"

"I'm going back to the hospital," Derek says. He glances at Meredith and Zola. "They're going back to the air conditioning."

Nancy nods. "Text me when you see Mom."

"Mom's doing great," he reminds her, responding to the anxiety in her tone. "She won't be there more than one or two more nights."

"The plan is still for her to stay with you when she's discharged?" Nancy sounds doubtful, which irritates him.

"Yes, Nancy, the plan is still for her to stay with us."

His sister holds up both hands innocently, and Meredith glances at Derek, seemingly surprised at his tone.

Apparently he's reached the limitation he so often faces when dealing with his family; with his patience thin – perhaps too thin considering Nancy's willingness to examine Meredith and reassure them both – he says goodbye to his sister and leads his family out the door and back into the summer heat.

…

Meredith isn't surprised when Derek accompanies them back to the apartment. He seems much calmer after Nancy's reassurances, but she still catches him stealing glances at her in the taxi like he's worried she's going to slump over again.

She says as much.

"I'm not worried," he says. "I'm … wary."

"Wary," she repeats.

"Wary," he agrees. "And _you_ ," he taps Zola's little nose as he closes the apartment door behind them, " _you_ … are weary. Which means you need a nap."

"No, I don't!" Their daughter's response is immediate and passionate.

At Derek's insistence Meredith relaxes on the couch while he negotiates naptime with Zola in their bedroom. The debate is vociferous and well-matched at the beginning but even with her strong start, she can hear Zola give in about halfway through the second book Derek reads to her. It's not very long before he joins her on the couch, propping the baby monitor on the coffee table.

"Talk to me," he says.

"About what?"

"You," he says simply. "And … Junior."

"Junior," she smiles, "is that what we're calling him now?"

"It suits him," Derek says fondly.

"Okay, then. I'm fine, Derek. You heard Nancy." She glances at him. "Really," she says gently. "I'm fine."

"You scared me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry, just … you have to be okay." He looks a little embarrassed, but he doesn't back down. "I need you to be okay."

"I _am_ okay. Derek." She touches his face. "Look at me. I'm okay, and so is … Junior."

He smiles at the name. "So you're agreeing to Junior."

"I'm agreeing to Junior. For _now_ ," she adds quickly. "I'm not … signing anything."

"Mm, that's what they all say."

"How many times have you done this, exactly?"

He gives her a rueful look. "Mer … what Nancy said …"

She nods. He doesn't have to finish; she understands.

Derek glances toward the closed door of the bedroom where Zola is sleeping. "We're not first time parents," he says quietly, "but you haven't been pregnant before. And I haven't … had you pregnant before." He smiles at his own convoluted sentence structure.

"I know that."

"Admitting that doesn't make us bad parents. Or … invalidate Zola."

"I know that," Meredith says again.

"We'll be experts by the time Junior hits the toddler stage, though," Derek points out, and she has to smile at his arrogant tone.

"I was thinking about Addison," Meredith says abruptly.

"What about her?"

"No, not now. I mean … before. In the hospital. Right before I … didn't pass out."

"Oh." Derek leans back against the cushions, apparently waiting for her to continue.

"It was fine," Meredith says quickly. "I mean, talking to her was fine, but then Amy brought Viv in to see her."

Derek nods.

"Seeing them together was just …" She shakes her head.

For some reason, she doesn't want to share that she felt Addison's baby kick. It feels private, even if she's not sure why.

Derek's eyes are soft. "It's a terrible situation."

"You think she should be getting treatment," Meredith proposes.

"I think it's a terrible situation," he repeats, not answering her question.

"I don't know what I would do," she says quietly, and Derek seems to hear something in her voice because he leans forward again.

"Meredith …"

"No, it's okay. It's just … I was thinking about that, and it's a thousand degrees in this city, and I didn't eat lunch. But I'm fine, Derek, and the baby's fine."

He folds his hand over hers.

"Derek," she says tentatively. "I think you should … spend some time with Mark."

Derek frowns. "You sound like my mother when I was a kid and I started to get underfoot in the kitchen."

The image of that makes Meredith smile. "I just think he needs someone to talk to."

"He must have other friends."

"You think?"

"No." Derek shrugs. "I don't know, to be honest. The three of us were … tight, when I lived here."

She notices he says _when I lived here,_ not _when I was married to Addison._

She's getting the sense that Mark and Addison might be a bit more insular, that their world got smaller when Derek's got bigger. Addison's pregnancy with Vivian and then subsequent unsuccessful attempts to have another child must have taken up a lot of time and space in their lives. And then there's Addison's illness. If Mark isn't allowed to tell anyone, how can he get any support?

She tells Derek as much.

"I don't know, Mer."

"I think you should spend some time with him," she says again, gently. "I think it might help."

"You got to know him, huh?"

"No," she says, because she has the strong sense it would take more than a few minutes of pizza and coffee to unpeel his layers. "But I think I understand Vivian … or some things, anyway, and I think helping Mark would help her."

Derek considers this.

"Think about it," she proposes, and he nods.

"Derek…" She looks at him. "You seemed upset with Nancy, before…"

A shadow crosses his face, briefly. "Siblings," he says, grimacing slightly. "It's nothing."

…

Derek begs off seeing his mother right away – his sisters are there, and he's reluctant to leave Meredith even though she looks … _fine_ … and assures him repeatedly that she is, in fact, fine.

He wonders if he made a mistake telling Meredith that Addison wanted to see her.

And then he wonders if she can actually read his mind – a sometimes troubling thought – because she looks over at him and shakes her head.

Nancy's words hang in his consciousness. Parenting Zola has been so all-consuming, from the beginning, their lives shifting immediately to welcome her, to envelop her, that he never really stopped to think how different it would be to wait for this child to develop, slowly, in Meredith's body, and then take home a tiny newborn. They were on equal footing with Zola, both brand new to parenting, learning as they went.

But with their little boy, he's powerless to do anything but watch and hope, and wonder. And worry. And … _hover,_ apparently.

"Derek … stop hovering."

"I'm not hovering."

"You're hovering," she says firmly.

"I like being around you!"

"I like being around you too, Derek, but … "

" … but not if I'm hovering?" He kisses her. "I get it."

"Wait." She pulls him back towards her for another kiss, a longer and deeper one.

"I might have to hover more if that's my punishment," he muses.

She smiles, and then settles on his lap.

"So … there's a pool at the Alliance a few blocks away," she tells him, rather confusingly.

"That's not exactly where I thought this was headed," he teases her.

She laughs and then describes the pool. "I don't want to just sit around the apartment, and it's too hot for much else. For me, if not for Zo."

"Of course."

"I … asked Addison if we could bring Vivian too."

Derek blinks. "That seems like a lot."

"I'm pregnant, Derek, not incompetent."

"I know that," he says patiently, "but handling two kids alone in a pool _and_ being pregnant … seems like a lot."

"You have to trust me," she says softly.

"I do. Meredith … you know I do."

"You can come with us," she says, half-teasingly.

"Maybe I will." He pauses. "I think Vivian would be disappointed."

"Yeah, probably."

He laughs at the expression on her face, then turns serious again. "I love that you want to help her. I just don't want you to take on too much."

"I don't want to either. So trust me to know what I can do."

"I do."

"Good." She kisses him quickly. "I can grow a baby … I can do all sorts of things, apparently."

"All sorts of things?" He glances toward the closed door of their bedroom.

She laughs, and then her eyes darken with interest. She leans towards him, and –

\- then the monitor flickers and they hear Zola calling for them from the bedroom.

"I swear, she _knows_ …" Derek grins and kisses her cheek before he lifts her off his lap and stands up. "I'll get her."

…

"Today," Zola says, little hands propped on her hips, as their standoff continues.

"Tomorrow," Meredith corrects.

"Today," Zola insists.

"Tomorrow."

" _Today._ "

"Zo…"

"Today!"

As a frustrated Zola sends her plastic shopping hurtling to the ground, Meredith thinks it might not be so terrible that the new baby will have a couple of years before the tantrum stage.

"We're going swimming _tomorrow_ ," Meredith says patiently, as Zola shrieks so indignantly you would think Meredith had just suggests they were going to be swimming in nuclear waste. "Today we can play here, or go to the indoor playspace. And then it's going to be dinnertime. You pick. Here, or playspace."

" _Swim_ ," Zola sobs. "I pick swim."

The ringing of her phone is a welcome interruption. "Daddy's calling," she tells Zola brightly, hoping to distract her.

It works; the tears stop immediately and Zola reaches for the phone. "Hang on, let Mommy talk first, and then you can."

Zola crawls into her lap and snuggles, apparently forgetting her rage, and Meredith strokes her soft cheek while she listens to Derek on the other end of the phone, half distracted and half picking up what he's saying.

 _Liz … daughters … dinner … girls._

"Dinner?" Meredith looks down at Zola, who is currently so sweet and cheerful it's hard to connect her with the little girl who shrieked as she sent pretend groceries scattering all over the living room floor. "Yeah, I think we can handle that."

"You sure? Liz was pretty adamant that no boys are allowed. She says the girls are dying to meet Zola."

"Sure," Meredith says. "It sounds … nice."

"I can push her," he offers. "You don't need to go alone."

"I won't be alone. I'll be with the _girls_." Meredith smiles a little. "Really, Derek … it's fine. And maybe you can …"

"… spend some time with Mark?"

"I didn't say that."

"You thought it."

"Maybe."

"Mer-"

"My turn," Zola pulls at her arm.

"Hang on, sweetie. Derek … Zola wants to say hello."

And she hands over the phone.

 _Dinner with the girls._

Heaven help them all.

…

He finds himself writing and rewriting a text the way he'd nervously rewrite a note to pass a girl in class in high school. Which is ridiculous for any number of reasons.

He and Mark are past niceties. Or they should be, at least. Despite the distance that's grown between them in recent years, they were once as close as brothers. Closer, really – certainly closer than he was to any of his sisters. At different times, each of them loved the same woman.

It wasn't even that strange, seeing him at Clara's wedding. He seemed much like himself, then, if a bit subdued – or was it nervous? – to see Derek.

But this Mark – the current Mark, the gaunt and troubled-looking Mark, feels different. Very different. So much has changed in the last few years. There's no perfectly coiffed Addison at Mark's side, smiling anxiously to try to smooth things over, and no cheerfully babbling toddler to distract them all.

He's seen the current Addison, the ill and pregnant Addison, for mere minutes and her solemn little girl not much more than that, but their shadow has loomed over every interaction he's had with Mark.

And so he writes … and rewrites.

 _Hey, Mark, Meredith thinks I should spend some time with you because your situation is unutterably fucked up and we're not sure you've told anyone else, so I'm your last hope._

… the honest approach isn't going to work, clearly.

When in doubt, keep it simple. He suggests coffee – which perhaps he can turn into a meal, or _should_ turn into a meal, considering Mark's uncharacteristic thinness.

Keeping it simple works.

"How's Meredith?" Mark asks immediately, joining Derek at the coffee bar lining one windowed wall of the hospital cafeteria.

"She's fine." Derek pauses, and waits until they've sat down at one of the small round tables before adding: "She thinks I'm hovering."

"Yeah." Mark looks rueful. "They always think that."

For a moment it's like they're friends again, joking about their pregnant wives, the sordid aspects of their joint history vanishing.

… but the sad parts don't vanish, and Derek realizes that Addison's current pregnancy is the fourth – that he knows of – for the couple.

"It's hard," Mark continues. "You can't do anything except, you know, watch. Until the baby's born. They do all the work. They make all the decisions …"

His voice trails off, and there's a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Meredith wants to take Vivian swimming," he blurts finally.

"Yeah, Addison said." Mark studies his coffee cup. "That's nice of her. She doesn't have to do that."

"She wants to," Derek says honestly. "It's nice for Zola to have someone to play with."

"We heard a lot about Zola." Mark smiles, a genuine smile. "Viv had a good time with her."

It's pretty much what Meredith said, though it's still hard for Derek to imagine the serious, troubled-looking little girl playing or even enjoying herself.

Mark seems to recognize what he's thinking. "It's been hard for her."

It's a serious understatement, but Derek nods anyway.

"She was different before, you know …" Mark's voice trails off.

 _Before Addison got sick,_ Derek assumes he means, but then Mark says, "before, uh, before she lost the last one."

Derek remembers his conversation with Mark about the couple's numerous IVF attempts. There was one embryo that implanted, he recalls, between the nineteen-week pregnancy they lost and Addison's current pregnancy.

"Faith," Mark reminds him, and there's something dark in his tone that Derek isn't sure he wants to explore. "Viv was there when it happened," he says quietly.

"She was-"

"She was the only one there," Mark clarifies. He's looking past Derek. "School break, and Addie was home with her. I was, uh, I was working."

He stops talking for a moment, and guiltily, Derek's grateful. He's not sure he wants to know what's coming next, though he can imagine.

"It was fast," Mark says, "from what I heard later, anyway, she started bleeding and then she … I don't know if she fell or just couldn't stand but she was on the ground when they got there."

"When they…"

"Viv called 911." Mark fingers the wooden stirrer from his coffee, then plunges it back into the dark liquid. "I don't even know how she learned to do that. School, maybe. I don't know. They came into the OR to get me but by the time I got there … you know, it was over. The baby was gone, Addison was recovering, it was over."

Derek feels cold all over at Mark's recollection, imagining a younger Vivian having to handle the emergency on her own.

"The nurses were great," Mark says, still looking at a memory Derek can't see. "They had Viv calmed down and drinking hot chocolate by the time I got there but there was still blood all over …" He stops talking.

"I'm sorry," Derek says quietly.

"Yeah. Me too."

So it seems Meredith was right. Mark did need to talk.

"Viv's with her mom." Mark takes a sip of coffee. "She's, uh, she's leaving tomorrow."

"Viv?" Derek is confused.

"No, Addison. Checking out, I mean."

"Oh." Derek's never quite understood the purpose of Addison's current hospital stay, though he doesn't exactly want to ask, either. He focuses on logistics instead. "We can coordinate the timing," he proposes, "and watch Vivian for you. Or Meredith can, I mean," he adds.

"Yeah? I mean, if Meredith's really … yeah, that would be great." Mark shakes his head. "Viv's been spending way too much time here."

Derek wants to know their plan, but he also doesn't – and it doesn't feel quite right to ask.

"So … Meredith's with Liz?" Mark looks interested, even amused.

"Girls only dinner," Derek reports, feeling that Mark is as relieved as Derek is to change the subject. "Apparently her daughters were dying to meet Zola."

"Yeah?" Mark takes another sip of coffee. "They must be out of the house by now, huh?"

"Everyone except Chloe." Derek actually has facts to report now, after having checked out of keeping up with his sisters' children for years. "But Carly's in med school in the city and Caitlin's up at Vassar so they're all coming in."

"Carly's in med school," Mark shakes his head and Derek knows he's feeling just as old as Derek did when he put those facts together.

And he recalls, of course, that there was a time when Mark was _Uncle Mark_ to his sisters' children _._

That time seems so long ago.

Derek checks the time on his blackberry. "They're going to be out for a while," he says tentatively, "if you want to, uh…"

Mark's phone goes off. "It's Amy," he says, "I need to go get Viv."

Right. Derek realizes this wasn't particularly well planned out.

"Should we …" Derek begins.

But he never finishes his sentences. It's remarkably easy to be enfolded once again in lives he'd cut off years ago – or so it seems, because he finds himself trailing Mark out of the cafeteria, down the hall, into the elevator, all the way to Addison's room.

 _Just talk to him,_ that's what Meredith asked him to do.

Amy is standing outside the door, leaning against the wall. She pushes off the wall when she sees them. "She's sleeping," she tells Mark, nodding at Derek in greeting.

Derek is somewhat confused to see his sister standing sentry, but he's stopped trying to work out the complexities of the Mark-Addison-Amy relationship. Mark just thanks her and pushes the door all the way open; Derek finds himself standing in the doorway, Amy leaving to go see their mother.

Inside the dimly-lit room, Vivian is curled up on the bed next to Addison, asleep.

Addison is awake; Derek watches her rhythmically smoothing her daughter's long hair.

He feels like he's interrupting an intimate moment. "I can…"

He starts to murmur an excuse but Mark says, "just give me a minute," so he feels compelled to stay in the doorway. He watches as Mark leans low over the bed to speak quietly to Addison. He can't hear the words, but he sees Mark kiss her forehead; Addison's eyes are closed when he pulls back. Mark stands there for a moment, seemingly watching both of them at once, and then he bends lower and carefully lifts his daughter off the bed.

Derek can tell Mark is trying his best not to wake Vivian but she wakes up anyway, starting to cry almost immediately and pushing at her father.

"No, I don't want to go," Vivian sobs hoarsely, coming fully awake and struggling in Mark's arms as Addison intercedes weakly, trying to soothe her.

"Vivi, it's okay…"

"Put me down, put me down!"

"You can't sleep here, baby, you know that. Come on, Vivi, please…" Mark sounds exhausted, placating and then finally impatient. "Just cut it out, Viv, come on. _Vivian_."

Addison looks devastated and Derek can see Mark glancing between the two of them, apparently trying to figure out how to balance their needs.

Finally, with an apologetic look to the general atmosphere, he just carries a loudly protesting Vivian out the door, Derek stepping out of the way to let them pass.

"Derek."

He glances into the room.

"You can come in. I'm not contagious," Addison says crossly.

"I know that."

He knows just as well that she's not actually annoyed with him; he's just … convenient. He hasn't blocked out all of their marriage.

"Sorry," she says when he's walked into the room, just as he would expect.

"It's okay." He shifts his weight awkwardly.

"So." Addison glances toward the open doorway, where they can still hear Vivian's cries echoing. "Do you regret calling me yet?"

Derek considers the question.

He thinks about the sad-eyed little girl who called 911 to save her mother's life. Two sad-eyed little girls. About Meredith connecting with Vivian. _You may have more in common with her than you realize._

He thinks about two unborn babies developing simultaneously in the wombs of two very different mothers. He thinks about two very different older sisters awaiting the births of their little brothers.

He thinks about Mark's tired face and stooped shoulders. About Switzerland, alternative treatments, and one final embryo. He sees Mark looking back and forth from Addison to Vivian and Addison looking from Vivian to the place in her own body where her baby is growing. So many different people needing so many different things, seemingly all at odds with each other. Pain and confusion.

If he hadn't reached out to try to get Addison's help for his mother's surgery, the two families could have moved through MSC in parallel, never crossing paths – they could have maintained the distance they spent almost seven years developing.

He thinks about Zola beaming when she described her playdate with Vivian.

He thinks about the terror he felt when Amy called, pounding down the linoleum to Meredith's side, and the exquisite agony of relief when he saw her sitting upright and talking and … fine.

He thinks about Nancy's words in her office, _healthy mama, healthy baby,_ and the brutally unfair choice between the two that no one should have to make.

He looks at Addison, hand resting on her silk pajama top over the spot where her son, despite all odds, is apparently continuing to grow. He thinks of Meredith, smiling on the exam table in Nancy's office, and Zola's outraged, giggly response to the idea that the black and white swirling image was actually her baby brother.

He thinks about how children don't have to be born to break your heart.

He thinks about how hearts can mend themselves in some of the most unexpected ways.

 _Does_ he regret calling Addison?

"No," he tells her honestly.

* * *

 _To be continued._ Next time: Mark and Derek spend some time together, Meredith and Zola do girls' dinner with Liz et al, and maybe more. Don't worry, Nancy's revelation about Jesse will be revisited. I don't like to beg, so only review if you feel like it. **Kidding!** I love to beg. So pretty please review and let me know you're still with me and it was totally a good choice to spend this morning finalizing this chapter instead of doing my actual work!


	24. carry you home

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the reviews and comments on this story! And don't worry, **Neb1223,** I'm not going anywhere. So please keep reading and reviewing bc you're the wind in my story sails.

This chapter is for **peachfresca** with my best thoughts.

* * *

 _carry you home  
..._

* * *

"He's under so much strain," Addison murmurs, glancing toward the door to her hospital room, where Mark has just disappeared with a crying Vivian fighting his grasp. "He was always so patient with her..."

Derek isn't sure what to say.

"He wanted me to have an abortion." Addison glances down at her body, and then at Derek, as if to confirm he knows the story, and he nods.

"I couldn't do it."

He looks at her, supposing he doesn't need to ask her to clarify and her next words confirm that.

"Me, on the board of Choice New York and everything, but … it's my choice, isn't it, and I couldn't." She rests her hand on her belly, looking past him, maybe at a memory.

He's not sure what to say.

"I just – I hate for Viv to leave like this. She'll be upset." Addison sighs, looking toward the door again. "Derek … do you think you can … "

He can. Or at least he agrees to try.

He finds father and daughter in a quiet part of the hallway; Mark has set Vivian on her feet and is kneeling in front of her holding her still. Derek can't help but overhear their conversation, or at least Mark's side of it.

"Listen to me. You upset Mommy. Did you see that?" He gives her a little shake – not hard, but Derek flinches anyway. "You can't do that, Viv, if you do that I can't bring you here, you _know_ that."

Mark's voice isn't loud – more like a harsh whisper, if anything – but the intensity of his tone doesn't seem to be lost on Vivian, who is now crying the kind of little-kid tears that are half-hiccup. Derek can't really make out any words from her – maybe an apology, maybe a protest, he's not sure. He's uncomfortable watching, he's uncomfortable _period_ , but some part of him feels … is it protective? Of Mark? Strange. Except that the only thing he knows is that he _can't_ know that he'd be any better equipped to handle this impossible situation.

Vivian is clinging to his neck the next time he glances over, Mark still kneeling on the floor, holding her tightly. One of his hands completely covers the back of her head. Her husky little voice is pleading but Derek can't make out her words or whatever Mark is saying to her now in a low rumbling voice, though it sounds like he's trying to calm her down.

"Okay," Mark is saying, his voice more audible now. "Okay, baby, stop crying and you can go back in there for a minute and say good night. Okay? But you have to calm down first. Stop crying, Vivi, come on."

He releases her and she shoves her fisted hands against her eyes, scrubbing at the tears.

Mark seems to notice Derek for the first time.

"Did she…" He tilts his head in the direction of Addison's room.

Derek nods.

"Sorry, just give me a second." Mark roots in the canvas bag and pulls out a pack of tissues; prying Vivian's hands off her face, he dries her tears and wipes her nose.

Derek catches Vivian giving him a treacherous look from swollen eyes, which he can't blame her for. He's not sure why he's still standing there except Mark hasn't dismissed him. Mark takes his daughter by the hand and gestures for Derek to follow them.

"If you make a fuss you're not coming back tomorrow," Mark warns Vivian outside the door. "I mean it."

Derek is confused for a moment, since he thought Addison was checking out tomorrow, but he recalls that Mark brings Vivian to see her mother in the mornings.

"You hear me?"

Vivian scowls but nods assent. Mark points a stern finger at her before he releases her hand outside the door; she pulls away from him and hurries into the room.

"Hi, sweetheart, I'm so glad you came back." Addison smiles and reaches for her daughter, who wastes no time clambering onto the bed.

"Viv, be careful," Mark says sharply.

"It's okay, Mark." Addison has both arms wrapped around Vivian now, stroking her hair and speaking to her in a low, soothing voice. Derek sees her little fingers clenched in her mother's shirt and thinks about the way Zola's hands look when she's holding onto Meredith at night and his stomach feels hollow.

Derek is still in the doorway, Mark standing a couple of feet away. After a few moments he approaches the bed.

"You need to get some sleep, Addie," Mark says quietly.

"It's okay."

"Viv should sleep too."

Addison nods slowly at this.

Derek watches as Mark reaches out to rub Vivian's narrow back, her long messy hair splayed across her mother and the sheets. "Okay, Viv. We need to go home, baby, say goodnight to Mommy."

Vivian's arms stay locked around her mother's neck. Derek stiffens, imagining a scene, but after a moment she loosens her hold and whispers a hoarse good night. Mother and daughter exchange kisses and Vivian slowly, reluctantly, climbs off the bed with Mark's help.

"Good girl," he praises her. Vivian slips her thumb into her mouth and ignores him, her gaze still fixed on her mother's hospital bed.

Mark sighs and leans over, presumably to kiss Addison goodnight; Derek can't hear what they're murmuring in low tones but he sees their foreheads resting together for a few moments.

At last Mark shifts the canvas bag he's carrying and lifts his daughter up; Derek, walking behind them, sees Vivian's head loll on her father's shoulder as she continues to suck her thumb.

"Come over if you still want to talk," Mark suggests as they walk toward the elevator. "She'll go right out, she's exhausted."

He's right; Vivian falls asleep on her father's lap on the short cab ride to Mark and Addison's home, thumb still in her mouth. Mark dislodges it carefully and turns her little palm over in his oversized hand. "She started doing that again about a month ago. It was years before that, but now, you know …"

Mark's voice trails off, and Derek has no answer.

…

Meredith can admit that going into this – riding in a cab across town with Zola on her lap, staring nervously out the window – she wasn't sure what to expect.

 _Girls' Dinner._

Who does that? Who _calls it_ that?

But it seems … apt.

Because somehow, despite the tablecloths, and the tall glasses – that Zola promptly tips over – and the fact that no one, not even Zo, is wearing pajamas, it's actually quite a bit like a slumber party.

(Not the kind of slumber party Meredith herself experienced, of course – whirlwind nights where _slumber party_ was what the girls whose mothers asked where they were going were told, and _nothing_ was what Meredith told her own mother, who never asked, and _slumbering_ never happened. Smoking … questionable decisions … occasional gambles with birth control … … but no slumbering.)

No, this dinner has turned out to be rather like the kind of slumber party she _didn't_ go to, the kind in movies with giggling girls who tease each other affectionately and compliment each other's outfits and finish each other's sentences.

Liz's three daughters are talkative and friendly, happy to be in each other's company.

Meredith looks from one to the other, frantically trying to memorize parts of their outfits or their jewelry – except two of them already switched necklaces after admiring each other's, which interfered with her strategy for telling them apart. It's not that they're identical, by any means, but they're all within … five? Six? Years of each other, with Shepherd dark hair, tall like all Derek's sisters, and their voices are uncannily alike.

And all their names start with the same letter.

So … there's that. But they seem like sweet girls, bringing small gifts for Zola and exclaiming over her with sincere delight.

The girls fuss over Zola in turns – Meredith was worried she'd be overwhelmed by the attention but Zola basks in it instead; she may not be wearing her pink plastic tiara but she might as well be since all three of her older cousins are eager to serve as her ladies in waiting.

And in the throng of cousinly delight, Liz is calm, resigned, affectionate – seemingly amused by her daughters and enjoying their interactions with their newly met cousins.

It doesn't take long for Zola to climb onto one of their laps – Chloe, she's pretty sure, though it could certainly be Caitlin, and secure their assistance decorating the sticker book one of them thoughtfully brought for her.

Liz takes advantage of the re-seating and moves over to sit next to Meredith.

"They're great with her," Meredith says.

"They were so excited to meet her," Liz responds. "Chloe printed out that picture Derek sent and hung it on the fridge. They had this idea you guys would come for Christmas but I told them … anyway, it's wonderful that you're here now. And I appreciate your coming to dinner, you know, just the two of you."

"Girls only," Meredith repeats dutifully.

"Right. It's just something we started doing when … you know, Coop had his own things that he did with Chris, and so the girls started doing it too."

Meredith tries valiantly to remember what Derek told her about Liz's children.

"You definitely don't need to have everyone memorized yet," Liz laughs, apparently reading her expression. "There are a lot of us. Cooper and I have five – these three … and our oldest lives in California."

"Clara," Meredith says, realizing.

"Right. And Christopher is the middle child _and_ the only boy … he's a junior at Dartmouth. Chloe's the only one still living at home," she sighs. "All those years I begged them to pipe down and now it's so quiet."

Meredith smiles at that. Liz's warmth is contagious.

"I've wanted to meet you for a long time," Liz says softly, sipping her iced tea. "When Derek left, it took a while to get used to not … knowing what was happening in his life. We used to spend a lot of time together," she adds, "all of us, when he and Addison were married, and Chris especially was close to him – " She stops, interrupting herself. "I'm sorry. Is it strange for you to talk about – we don't have to."

"No," Meredith says quickly. "Actually it's – kind of nice, to hear about his life before I knew him."

Liz glances at her. "I heard you took care of Addison's daughter."

Meredith swallows, surprised.

"And I know she's sick. Well … Kathleen saw them, and … I guess I just wanted to tell you that. I mean, so you don't think you have to hide it."

Meredith smiles uncertainly, not sure what to say. The web of secrets surrounding the Shepherd siblings is too complicated to try to unravel, so she just hangs on as best she can.

"We were all close, when … but that was a long time ago." Liz pauses. "You know my mother wanted Addison to operate."

Meredith nods.

"I don't know if you talked to Addie, but ... you know, she and my mother didn't always see eye to eye. Mom didn't hate her," Liz adds hurriedly, "She loved her, in her way, because we did and her grandchildren did and Derek did but … I guess she wanted Derek to marry someone who would give him children."

Meredith looks across the table at Zola, who's showing off a completed sticker page to one of her cousins, whose impressed reaction suggests it's the equivalent of splitting the atom.

"I guess she didn't realize he was waiting for the right child," Liz smiles at Meredith. "It's made my mother really happy, seeing Zola, getting to spend time with her … she misses Derek."

Meredith isn't sure how to respond to that.

"I know he felt like he needed to get out of the city and I understand that, you know, what happened was terrible, but it's been hard for all of us too, not having him here. He was the only boy, you know, like my Chris and after Dad…" Liz stops talking. "I'm sorry, I'm going on."

Meredith sees tears in her dark eyes, so different from Derek's.

"Are you –"

"I'm fine, sorry. Just, you know, thinking about my father. You know…" She glances at Meredith, who nods.

"Right, I figured, but it took him years to – anyway, it was hard, maybe hardest on Derek. I knew Dad longer than any of the others, of course." Liz takes a deep breath. "I was already a senior in college; I'd already been accepted to medical school. I wanted to drop out, you know, come home, help Mom, but she wouldn't hear of it. Dad was so proud when I was accepted to med school and … she wanted me to go."

"I wish I could have met him." Meredith pauses, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. That must sound so … I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. You're not the first Shepherd spouse to say that. I wish you could have to, and believe me I've thought that so many times, with the kids, and … anyway."

"What was he like?"

Liz smiles at the question. "Talkative," she says. "He loved baseball and he used to rake piles of leaves and let us jump in them over and over again and a chore that should have taken a few hours would take the entire weekend. He loved kids. I'm not sure Mom would have wanted five without his … encouragement." She grins.

"It sounds so … foolish to say it this way, but he was … _nice._ Gentle, you know. Clara takes after him a bit."

"Easygoing," Meredith says automatically.

Liz smiles. "Yes. Exactly. How did you – oh, right. The wedding."

Meredith grimaces slightly at the memory.

"Yeah. Dad never held a grudge, and Clara's always been like that, everything rolls off her back – which is good, when you're the oldest of five." Liz leans back in her chair, her eyes misty. "There are flashes of him in all of them, and you see them, and – my nephew Sean, Nancy's Sean? He's such a little politician, always was. A charmer, like Dad. My little one is a prankster, like he was."

Liz glances affectionately across the table and Meredith is reminded that Liz's youngest is _the little one_ even if she's at least four inches taller than Meredith.

"Actually … Zola reminds me of Dad a bit too."

"Zola does," Meredith repeats, confused.

"Yeah. He was gregarious. Everyone was a friend, everyone he met – he was a salesman, you know? I know my mom thinks that's what … happened, you know, that he must have thought he could talk his way out of it. He could always talk his way out of everything."

Meredith studies the pattern on the tablecloth, and it blurs in front of her eyes. The waiter appears to offer dessert just in time.

…

On the stoop of Mark and Addison's townhouse – the picturesque limestone building Derek visited what seems like a lifetime ago, shocked when his sister answered the door – Mark juggles a sleeping Vivian and his ever-present canvas bag, rooting for his keys.

Derek watches for a moment, then extends a tentative hand. "You want me to…." He gestures at the sleeping child.

"Nah, she'll wake up and freak out. It's okay, I'll find 'em, I always … yeah." Mark locates the keys and then pushes the heavy-looking front door open.

"Let me just put her down."

He leaves Derek in the foyer, the trembling dangles of a chandelier casting dim light, but he doesn't head upstairs; Derek watches him disappear into an open room off the large great room.

"This way I can see her," Mark explains when he emerges. "Her sleep's been bad … well, you know that."

"Yeah."

Mark shoves his hands into his pockets and doesn't say anything.

Derek looks around. "This place is big."

"Yeah, too big, really. You want more light?"

"Whatever is fine."

Mark flicks on another bulb, illuminating a series of frames along the wall.

Derek focuses on one blown up print – it's lovely, snapped at golden hour on a picturesque beach he recognizes as the Cape or one of its islands. The picture looks a couple of years old, a younger Vivian seated atop Mark's shoulders, wearing a ruffled bathing suit and laughing. Her hair is shorter in the picture, windblown but without the shaggy quality it has now. Mark is grinning into the camera; Addison has one of her hands tucked through his suntanned arm and is smiling up at Vivian. She's wearing a big sunhat – he remembers those, Addison was always fanatic about protecting her skin – and squinting into the sun in a way that suggests she was wearing sunglasses before the picture was snapped.

Mark sees him looking.

"Her aunt left her the place on Nantucket," he says. "We usually just rent it and go out east but … it's nice up there."

"Yeah."

The three of them look happy, is what he sees. Like a family unit.

Then there's a black and white portrait of Vivian, clearly professional and taken by someone who knows what they're doing – it's captured a light in her eyes he hasn't really seen; she looks pensive but alive and … happy.

The museum quality to the house makes more sense now; it's a tribute of sorts to a family that doesn't seem to exist anymore.

Suddenly he feels very tired.

"You want to eat something?" Mark is leaning against the wall, looking at the floor.

Derek nods, mainly for distraction.

The kitchen is large but surprisingly … homey, with perfectly ordinary things attached to the front of the refrigerator with the alphabet-magnets that are apparently required for all houses with children – including Derek and Meredith's. There's a schedule for St. Ignatius preschool, a list of contact numbers, a candid snap of Addison and Vivian in a pile of leaves in the park. There's a picture of a toddler Vivian licking a half-melted ice cream cone; the edges of the photo curl up with moisture. It must have been there a long time.

Sorry, it's a mess," Mark says, following Derek's gaze to a desk covered with papers in an alcove at the back of the kitchen. Leaded windows display the garden at the back of the house; Derek can see a wrought-iron archway and a child's swing.

"It's my stuff," he says, almost apologetically, "she's always after me to clean it up."

Derek is distracted, not by the clutter of papers on what is apparently Mark's work desk, but by a photograph in a simple pewter frame propped up behind a stack of folders. It's a candid closeup of Addison with a crooked half-smile and wide, knowing eyes. There's something intimate about the shot, though the blurred trees behind her indicate she's outside; maybe it's the fact that it was clearly taken by Mark himself.

What stops him isn't the picture itself but how similar it is to a picture of Meredith he has on his own desk at work. He can close his eyes and summon it; she's half-smiling at him in it like she knows a secret, her eyes soft. The photographs on the wall in his office are the standards: the three of them in a boat; Zola laughing in the grass … but the one on his desk is for him. So that when he looks up when he's working he can look right into her eyes.

That's what Mark's done with Addison and the import of it hits him.

But Mark is rustling in the refrigerator, apparently having moved on. "There's some Chinese … not sure how old it is. Amy probably ordered it. I can nuke it or … " Mark takes out a carton and sniffs it. "Maybe we should order fresh."

Derek lets Mark take the lead, acting more as a doctor than a – friend or whatever he is, here. Because he knows it makes things easier sometimes to focus on logistics. He orders falafel from a place he seems to know, because it comes incredibly fast and they text him instead of knocking or buzzing.

It's good, too.

Mark picks at his – apparently Vivian isn't the only one too anxious to eat, not that he can blame him. Derek is hungrier than he realized and the food is good; he remembers, as the flavors that are somehow both simple and complex explode on his tongue, living in a city where food anywhere from delicious to remarkable could be summoned to the door at any time of night.

Mark turns at a creak in the floorboards and Derek follows his gaze.

Vivian is padding toward them, squinting in the comparative light. She's holding a stuffed panda bear with a big pink embroidered smile, jarringly cheerful compared to the solemn little girl he's met. He supposes that like the photographs lining the walls, the toy is a relic of a former version of the family.

Derek wonders with some nervousness if she's asleep, but she's moving with purpose, not blankness, and Mark speaks to her as if she's awake; Derek figures he would know.

"Vivi, what are you doing up, baby? It's late."

Vivian crosses the room, ignoring Derek, climbs into her father's lap without speaking and leans against him.

"You woke up, huh? It's okay." He pushes some of her tangled hair away from her sleep-flushed face and kisses the top of her head.

"You want me to take you back to bed?"

She shakes her head.

"You want to hang out with us a little?"

She glances at Derek and then nods, slipping her thumb into her mouth.

"Are you hungry?" Mark moves her hand gently away from her mouth and she pulls it back and latches onto her thumb again, shaking her head.

"How about some milk?"

He doesn't wait for her to answer, standing up with her in his arms. "Sorry," he says to Derek, and disappears into the kitchen.

Vivian takes a few token sips from a bright yellow cup and then pushes it away, looking half asleep again. Derek shifts uncomfortably, not sure what they can or can't talk about and whether Vivian is awake. It doesn't take long for her to fall asleep again.

Mark carries her into the other room when she's out but she returns a few minutes later. There are shadows under her eyes – she looks frankly exhausted.

Staring at Derek, she leans close to Mark and whispers in his ear; he shushes her.

"I want him to go," she says louder this time.

"Hey, be nice. Derek is our guest."

Vivian scowls and pulls away from her father. "Then I'm not going to sleep."

"Yeah, you are."

"I don't want to sleep in there by myself," she whines.

Mark sighs, looking frustrated.

"I want to sleep in _my_ room," Vivian adds.

"I can go…" Derek offers.

"No," Mark says.

"Yeah, go," Vivian says darkly.

"Viv, cut it out, you're being rude."

"I'm _not_ _tired_ ," she changes her tune, though it's not very believable with the shadows under her eyes. Derek's not sure he's seen a child, outside of the hospital when the child is his patient, looking as tired as Vivian does.

"Well, you have to sleep," Mark says firmly, "if you want to go see Mommy in the morning."

Guilt flashes across Mark's features as he glances over at Derek and Derek assumes he's wondering if he's being judged for using Addison to coerce Vivian into behaving.

Truthfully … he can't judge. Couldn't even if he wanted to, because he's seen enough of Mark's life to realize there are very few good choices.

Vivian's lower lip trembles and she doesn't respond. She takes a small step toward Mark, who holds out his hand toward her, but then turns and runs up the stairs.

"Viv!"

Derek hears a door slam shut.

Mark stands, looking annoyed, then guilty. "I'm sorry," he says to Derek, who notices that Mark's takeout container is still mostly full and that Mark looks almost as tired as Vivian. "You must think –"

"I don't think anything," Derek says. "You're … in a tough spot."

Mark glances at him. "You might not say that if you knew – " he stops talking and glances at the staircase. "Forget it. Thanks for, you know, coming over."

"Of course. I'll, uh, I'll see you tomorrow?" Derek realizes he never got an answer about Addison release – or her prognosis or their plans. Here he is somewhere he never thought he'd be – Mark and Addison's family home – and so much still seems shrouded in mystery.

Mark nods.

"Pack a bathing suit for Vivian," Derek says with a slight smile, "or Zola will be disappointed."

As he slides into a cab, Derek realizes that he doesn't feel judgment for Mark … just sympathy.

…

"So that's Kathleen." Liz sips her iced tea as Meredith tries to keep all the information straight. "But Nancy wanted to be a surgeon." Liz glances at Meredith. "I chose family medicine for the lifestyle – and because when I was in medical school, they pretty much told women to choose OBGYN or family medicine. They'd never get away with that now," she says, "but … that was then. And I wanted to have a family."

Meredith didn't know this about Nancy. She wonders if she was in a surgical program and dropped out, or was discouraged, or –

"I did family medicine, Kathy always wanted to shrink heads," Liz smiles at this, "but Nancy was going to be the surgeon."

"What happened?"

"Emma happened." Liz smiles. "Nancy was a surgical intern. Got pregnant, switched programs."

"Nancy's a funny one," Liz says. "You know, she didn't have the easiest time of it. She was the middle child. Before Derek she was the baby and then for years at least she was the youngest of the girls, but then Amy came along and displaced her there."

"And then Amy became a surgeon. Even after the drugs and the theft and – and I think Nancy resented that."

"I think it's part of what drew her to Addie, you know? Nancy respected how much she prized her career, that she didn't want to have kids until she was ready." Sometimes I think she resented it too, a little … but she also lived vicariously through it. And Addie got to have the kid thing with Nancy's. She delivered the twins. Nancy loves her kids," Liz says quickly, "but she resisted … I mean, she was going to stop at three – Shepherds are fertile," Liz laughs, "which I probably don't have to tell you, but then she got pregnant again and it was _I'd never have five,_ you know, like I did, like Mom did, and then she found out she was carrying twins."

Meredith hasn't gotten many words in but hasn't felt the need to. She's fascinated by Liz's retelling of their childhood, by the images flickering in her mind of a mischievous toddler Derek, a cheerful grade schooler in a cub scout uniform. The only boy in a swath of girls, Liz reminds her, with no brother.

"…well, except for Mark." Liz pauses, sipping water, then glances at Meredith. "Do you … know Mark?"

"Only what I've seen here," Meredith says tentatively.

"Mark is … how do you explain Mark. He was a force of nature. He got so enmeshed in our family – that's what Kath would say, it's one of her shrink words – that it was like Derek was his sidekick and not the other way around."

It's hard to imagine someone that close to Derek enacting such an enormous betrayal, but then again it's hard to know why anyone does anything, in Meredith's experience. People are consistent in being inconsistent, maybe.

Liz is still talking about Mark. "He just had this way of … drawing people in. And he loved Derek. And so did Addison, you know, they were like this … threesome. Pardon the expression." Liz smiles, looking almost mischievous, and in that moment Meredith sees Derek very clearly in her face.

"All that was a long time ago," she says finally, and at that moment a loud yawn erupts from across the table.

"Zozo." Meredith smiles at her daughter, who is leaning against her cousin and enjoying the focused attention from all three girls, but starting to look like she's falling asleep. "I think we should probably be heading home."

Chloe – she hears the others calling her name – carries Zola on her hip like a pro out to flag down a taxi.

"We _love_ Zola," Caitlin says, holding one of her little hands. "Meredith, can we come visit you in Seattle?"

"She's _so cute_ ," Chloe breathes, "and we don't have any little cousins, not anymore."

"I've never been to Seattle. But I've been to Portland and it was awesome. That's close, right? You can drive?"

" _You_ were a little cousin," Carly teases her.

"I was not!"

"Girls," Liz laughs, "give Meredith a little breathing room. This is her first time in the Shepherd tornado, remember. Let's say goodnight and let them go and let Carly go back to school."

All three of Liz's daughters hug Meredith goodbye, all three are taller than she is, and she's not exactly used to this kind of … exuberance, but it feels honest and she accepts it.

"Are you going back to Connecticut?" She asks Liz.

She shakes her head. "We're staying with Nancy tonight. The three of us," she gestures at her two younger daughters, "and then Cait will drive Chloe home on the way back to school."

"It's not on the way," Caitlin points out.

"But you're _such_ a good sister that you don't mind," Chloe counters.

"Good night, Meredith," Liz says pointedly. Thank you for putting up with us."

"Bye bye," Zola calls, waving her hand.

She's grateful to get off the steamy street and into the chill of the taxi. "You had fun with the big girls, huh?"

"Yeah," Zola snuggles close. "My cousins?"

"That's right, Zozo. Your cousins. You have … a lot of cousins."

"Carly," Zola repeats, beaming. "And Chloe and Caitlin." She pauses. "Vivi too?"

"Vivi's your friend," Meredith corrects gently, "not your cousin."

"Why?"

"Well … the big girls are your cousins because their mommy is your aunt," Meredith explains.

"Aunt Lizzie."

"Exactly."

Zola considers this.

Meredith thinks about the arbitrary lines people draw around family. She thinks about how Zola was theirs in her heart from the moment she saw Derek holding her, beaming. She decides if Zola brings it up again she won't stop her from calling Vivian her cousin.

That little girl could use all the family she can get.

…

Derek returns to a darkened apartment and two sweet sleeping faces in his bed. Meredith blinks awake and smiles at him, a faintly snoring Zola cuddled into her side. "Hey," she murmurs sleepily. "You're back. You want me to move her?"

"No, don't," he whispers.

Right now he wants to be as close to both of them as possible.

For as long as possible.

Meredith seems to sense this because her familiar small fingers weave through his and squeeze tightly, as if to say, _I'm here,_ and he can still feel her strength as sleep overtakes him.

* * *

 _To be continued.  
Oh man, life is rough in Manhattan right now for the Sloans and some of the Shepherds but life is long and so are my chapters so keep hanging on. Times are tough ... but tomorrow, there's swimming. Thank you to everyone who's reading, your reviews mean a ton and encourage me to keep going when I should really be doing other things. I thank you from the bottom of my fic-loving heart. I'd love to know what you think - maybe even if you're someone who's been reading but not reviewing yet? And rockstar commenters who chime in every chapter, you're the heart and soul of this site. xoxo_


	25. more news from nowhere

**Here is a nice short chapter ... winter "chapter that ate the world" machine never said. Thank you so much for all the feedback on this story. It's on my mind so much that I forget when I go a few days without updating. But I'll always come back. xoxo**

* * *

 _more news from nowhere  
…_

* * *

"Ring the bell," Zola commands, standing on tiptoe but still unable to reach it.

Derek jingles his keys. "How about I just use these?"

"Bell!" Zola jumps up, trying to reach it, and Derek relents and lifts her.

Meredith pulls open the door just as the second chime hits, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"Your daughter insisted," Derek says apologetically, leaning in to kiss her.

" _My_ daughter." Meredith holds out her arms and Zola clambers onto her hip, snuggling close.

"Oh, yeah." Derek smiles at them, then shows Meredith the plastic bag he's holding. "She was my daughter when she was a perfect angel on our errands."

"Of course." Meredith shakes her head, then kisses Zola's cheek. "You found swimmies?"

"We found great swimmies."

Meredith sets Zola on her feet and they both her run into the living room, making a beeline for her pink plastic shopping cart.

Derek studies her tired face for a moment. "Mer … are you sure you want to …"

"Go swimming?"

"Well, yeah," he smiles slightly at her expression. "Well … to take Vivian with you, I mean."

Meredith raises her eyebrows. "She's not the bad seed, Derek. She's a scared little kid whose whole life has been turned upside down."

"I know that." Derek pauses. "She seems to hate me," he admits, and gives Meredith a brief synopsis of the previous night.

"She has sleep issues … and you were on her turf," Meredith shrugs.

"But Mark – "

"Yeah, I know Mark wanted you there, but I might be annoyed too if I woke up and some guy was in my house monopolizing my – stop laughing," she scolds him.

"I'm sorry." He holds up both hands. "It's just you do wake up and see me there a lot, and I guess I should be grateful you usually seem pretty okay with it."

She shakes her head. "Zola's excited to swim with Vivian," she says firmly, "and I think Mark seems like he needs a break. Don't you?"

"I think Mark seems … exhausted," Derek says, "and so does Vivian. And so does Addison, it goes without saying, I guess … no one in that family is sleeping much."

…

Derek leaves Meredith and Zola in the apartment sharing a bowl of cereal and fruit for breakfast and heads the short distance to the hospital. They've timed the morning carefully; he'll attend his mother's oncology appointment, then meet Meredith and Zola, as well as Mark and Vivian, before they head to the pool.

The appointment is brief and positive, Carolyn's prognosis bright and her discharge date set for the next day.

"You're such an overachiever, Mom," Nancy teases. Derek sneaks a glance at his sister's face to see her dark eyes shadowed. He wants to ask …

But he knows he can't.

"Let's go for a walk," Derek suggests, and his mother agrees readily. They're making their way down the hallway, his mother fairly slow but steady in the fluffy slippers Liz brought for her, when two familiar figures round the corner.

Vivian … hand in hand with Amy.

His mother stops walking.

"Hi," Amy says quietly. Nancy nods to her.

"Mom … you look good."

"Thank you, honey. Who's your friend?" Carolyn glances down at the little girl.

"Vivian," Amy says after a moment. She looks up at her name.

"She's Addison and Mark's?" Carolyn says quietly to Derek and he nods. "She's gotten so big. But of course she's theirs, she looks so much like Mark did as a boy. Look at that little face."

To Vivian she says, "hi there, honey."

Vivian backs up toward Amy, who rests her hands on her shoulders. "Viv … that's my mom," Amy tells her gently. "You saw her a long time ago, probably, but..."

 _But the less said about that wedding, the better._

Viv doesn't look impressed.

"I'm Zola's grandma," Carolyn offers.

Now Vivian looks more interested.

Mark rounds the corner then, his focus on his daughter; he doesn't seem to see assembled Shepherds. "Sorry, that took so long." He's holding Vivian's face between his palms, rubbing at what looks like a smudge of dirt, when he glances up.

Derek can tell the moment he notices Carolyn. The air prickles with … something, and Derek can tell Nancy feels it too.

"Mark," his mother says softly.

Each of them takes a step forward, and then – very carefully – they embrace.

There are tears in both their eyes when Mark pulls back. Vivian, looking confused, is shying back toward her father, who lifts her into his arms. She turns her face away from the gathered Shepherds.

Mark strokes his daughter's hair and just looks at Carolyn, silently.

Then they speak at the same time.

 _I'm so glad you're all right._ That's what Mark says.

 _You have a beautiful child._ That's what Carolyn says.

...

"Where's Daddy?" Zola asks.

"He's coming, Zozo."

"Where's Vivi?"

"She's coming too. Just another minute, I bet." Meredith snags the waistband of Zola's little shorts as her daughter tries to escape the lobby. "Hang on a minute, sweetie, you can get out all that energy at the pool."

"They're here!"

Zola crows with delight to see her friend as Mark and Viv – and Derek – push through the revolving glass doors; Vivian smiles shyly but hangs back a little.

Meredith is pleased to see that Vivian's hair is pulled back into two neat French braids hanging down her back. At least she won't have to worry about Viv drowning under that curtain of messy hair in the pool.

"Okay, baby, you be good and do what Meredith tells you," Mark is saying to Viv with the quality of a reminder, crouched down in front of her. "And be nice to Zola, she's … younger than you," Mark adds hastily, presumably thinking better of calling her _little_ again.

Mark stands up again. "She, uh, she didn't sleep well last night, I'm sorry," he says quietly to Meredith. "If you don't want to …"

"We want her to come with us," Meredith assures him.

"Thanks." Mark looks somewhere between embarrassed and relieved.

He glances at Viv, who is currently sitting on the floor of the common space with Zola, admiring her new yellow swimmies.

"I, uh, I didn't tell Viv about … today," he says and Meredith can tell he means Addison's plan to check herself out of the hospital. "I don't want to upset her if she changes her mind."

"Has she changed her mind before?" Meredith asks the question automatically, then regrets its intrusive nature.

"She changes her mind all the time," Mark says grimly. "And I have to pick up the pieces."

His expression is dark. A little uncomfortable, Meredith changes the subject.

"Does Vivian have everything she needs for the pool?"

Mark nods. "She's a pretty strong swimmer, you know, she has deep water cert at the club. I told her she needs to stick with you guys in the water though."

Meredith hadn't really considered this. Maybe she should have. "Oh, okay. So she doesn't need any …" She gestures toward Zola's little swimmies.

"No. We never used them, actually, she started swimming on her own before we could consider it." He glances at his watch. "I should …"

"Of course. We'll check in with you later," Meredith assures him.

"Thank you so much." He glances over at his daughter, who's deep in conversation with Zola. "Viv … I'm gonna go."

She trots over, Zola on her heels. Derek joins them and Viv looks suspiciously at him, then addresses him directly.

"You're not going with us."

"Hey," Mark says sharply, " _you're_ not going if you act like that."

Vivian doesn't say anything, just clutches the strap of her little swimming bag. There's an embroidered letter _V_ on the front.

"Say you're sorry," Mark instructs her. "Viv…"

Vivian blinks and doesn't say anything at all.

"Then you're not going." Mark grabs her hand.

"No!" Viv pulls away and then glares at Derek. "Sorry," she mutters, not sounding very sorry at all.

Derek smiles briefly at her, then glances at Mark. "It's fine," he assures the other man.

Vivian, apparently not pressing her luck, gestures Zola back to the bench where they were playing previously.

"Sorry." Mark massages the bridge of his nose. "She's tired," he says, sounding a little defensive, even though neither Derek nor Meredith has said anything.

"It's fine." Meredith repeats Derek's words, seeing Mark glance over at his daughter again, looking worried. "She'll be fine," Meredith adds.

"Okay. Thank you," he says again. "Seriously, thank you – "

"Stop thanking me," Meredith says firmly. "This is a treat for Zola."

Mark nods, looking like he's trying to believe her, then glances at his watch again.

"I'll walk over with you," Derek says to him quietly, and he nods.

"Viv … I'm going, I'll see you later," Mark calls over toward the bench where the two little girls are chatting. Vivian glances up at him, then turns back to her play without saying anything at all.

He and Derek walk toward the door.

"Wait!"

They both turn at the pounding of little feet.

"You didn't say goodbye!" Viv is staring up at Mark with big wounded eyes.

"Yes I did, I just … ." Mark stops, sets his bag down on the ground, and lifts Vivian up so he can kiss her goodbye; she clutches him tightly.

"I don't want you to go," she whispers.

"Hey, it's okay." Mark rubs the back of her head. "You're going to go swimming. That's a lot better than hanging out with me."

Vivian is playing with the collar of his shirt. "Come with us."

"Not this time, baby. You're going to have fun with your friends while Daddy takes care of some things and then I'll see you later."

She considers this, then leans in to whisper something to him.

"Yeah, later. Tonight." He kisses her again. "Be a good girl and listen to Meredith," he says again, and Viv pulls away to join Zola.

Meredith beckons Viv back toward her and Zola; from where she's sitting, she can see the other men leave the lobby, and see Mark's head turn a few times, gazing back through the glass as if he's trying to catch a glimpse of his daughter.

…

Meredith and Vivian walk with Zola in between them, which seems to suit everyone's needs: Zola has the attention of her mom _and_ her new friend, Meredith has some comfort that Viv isn't going to step into the street without a little warning, and Vivian … well, Vivian can keep some distance from Meredith.

In the locker room, Meredith corrals both girls, finds some space, and starts hanging up their streets clothes. Viv pulls off her shorts and t-shirt; she's wearing her bathing suit underneath.

Zola regards her with concern.

"Where's your yellow swimsuit, Vivi?" Zola asks as soon as she sees Viv's blue and white two-piece, and Meredith has to hide her smile at her daughter's suspicious tone.

Viv considers this. "At my house, I think," she says with a shrug.

"Oh." Zola studies her friend. "…okay," she says finally, as if she's given the matter much thought.

Meredith hides her smile as she ushers the little girls toward the pool, fitting Zola into her yellow swimmies.

"You like to swim?" Zola asks Vivian as they approach the water's edge.

"Yeah," Viv says, "but I didn't get to go in my pool really this summer 'cause …" her voice trails off. "'cause we were busy," she says, holding her little chin aloft and glancing at Meredith like she's daring her to push it.

"Then I'm glad you're going to swim now," Meredith intercedes smoothly. "Zola loves the water and she's learning to swim, right, Zozo?"

Zola is distracted by something, looking at her older friend and then down at her own self. "Vivi … where are your swimmies?"

"I don't have them," Viv says.

Zola looks down at hers again. "Take them off," she tells Meredith.

"Uh-uh, sorry." Meredith shakes her head. "No swimmies, no swimming."

Zola stamps her little foot.

"Zola," Meredith says calmly. "Viv is older than you are. When you're five, you might not need swimmies anymore either."

"No!"

"I had swimmies before," Viv says abruptly. "When I was littler."

Zola perks up a little at this. "You did?"

"Yeah," Viv says, reaching out a hand to touch them. "They were cool."

Zola nods, apparently accepting this, and Meredith leads both girls toward the water.

They both delight in the pool in their own ways. Vivian is a strong swimmer, and fast. She stays in the area Meredith demarcates but she's a blur of movement; Meredith gets the sense she's missed the water.

Zola bobbles on the surface in her swimmies, calling out to Meredith and Viv whenever she gets close enough, demanding they watch her swim and receiving accolades in response. Zola squeals with delight when Vivian stands on her hands underwater in the shallowest part of the pool, two little feet breaking the surface of the water.

"You're a really good swimmer," Meredith praises her when she surfaces.

Viv smiles a little.

"Hey." When Zola paddles away, Meredith gestures to Viv, who swims over. "That was nice of you, before … to tell Zola you used to wear swimmies."

Viv seems surprised by the compliment, but before she can respond the door from the locker room bursts open and they're no longer alone in the pool.

The newcomers are a tall blonde woman carrying a baby that she immediately props into an octopus-shaped floatie, and two towheaded children in matching swimsuits who cannonball directly into the pool.

The woman smiles sheepishly at Meredith. "They're a little rambunctious. They didn't splash your little ones, though?"

Meredith glances at Zola and Viv, neither of whom seemed troubled by the cannonballers.

"It's fine," she assures the woman.

The blonde glances down at Meredith's two-piece swimsuit, or rather at the part of her that protrudes over the modest bottoms. "Getting ready for your third, huh? I thought three seemed like a good idea once, too." The woman laughs, flashing a mouthful of white teeth.

"Oh, I – "

"Sorry to assume." The woman gestures to the baby in the floating tube in front of her, who is slapping the water with glee. "It's not as if I've recovered from this one yet, but …"

"No, it's fine. I'm pregnant," Meredith reassures her. "It's not just too many New York bagels. But – "

"They _are_ good, aren't they? And the pizza," the woman says, turning in the water. "Taylor … Dylan … stay out of the deep end," the woman calls.

Zola paddles over and climbs onto Meredith, wrapping wet arms around her neck. "Who's that baby?" Zola asks with interest.

"Hi there, cutie pie," the woman smiles at Zola. "This is Mia."

"Hi, Mia," Zola responds, studying the baby's round face.

"Zola!" Viv swims up then with fast flipper kicks and Zola wriggles away from Meredith and splashes after her friend.

"Your oldest is quite a swimmer," the woman says. "Sorry, I'm Cyn. Well, Cynthia, but only to the law."

"Meredith," she responds, and the women both smile as they consider, and then reconsider, shaking wet chlorinated hands.

"She _is_ quite a swimmer," Meredith says, glancing at Viv, "but I can't take credit. Only the little one is mine."

"Ah." The woman watches Viv and Zola for a moment. "I should have known … because they're playing so nicely."

Her gaze flickers over to the two blond children in matching striped swimsuits who appear to be trying to drown each other. "Taylor! Dylan! Be nice or we're leaving!"

"What was I saying about having a third?" Cyn smiles tiredly and strokes the baby's head.

Meredith smiles at the littlest one. She has a cheerful round face and impossibly long eyelashes.

"Actually," Cyn allows, "this one's calm as anything. Not like those two. I guess she knows her Momma already has her hands full."

Cyn pauses for breath and to stroke one of her baby's round cheeks.

"We're from Houston. My husband had a business trip out here and I challenged him to take all three kids – which seemed like a good idea at the time," Cyn explains, pausing to break up a squabble between her older children that involved both of them getting dunked. "But then I thought if the rest of the family is going to New York City, then I'm going too. And … we wanted a pool," she smiles.

This is … the _mommy_ thing. Meredith is still getting used to it. Meet a new mom, flood each other with information. Cyn smiles encouragingly, indicating it's Meredith's turn.

"We, uh, my husband's mother had surgery and we came out from Seattle to … be here."

 _Okay, so I'm not quite fluent in the mommy thing yet._

"I hope your mother-in-law is doing well."

"Yes. She's doing very well, thank you."

"Good." The woman smiles. "Your husband's from back east?"

"Yes."

"So y'all are getting a chance to be with family here?" At Meredith's nod, Cyn beams. "And the swimmer? She must be a cousin?"

 _Actually … she's my husband's ex-wife's child who was conceived while they were still married except her father is my husband's ex-best friend._

"Basically," Meredith says with a weak smile.

…

Time slows down in the pool to splashes, and laughter, and occasional coerced bathroom breaks. Cyn's older two children – Meredith realizes she's not sure which is Taylor and which is Dylan – are tussling in the shallow end, making a fair amount of cheerful noise. The little boy darts away, then turns to throw water on his sister, some of it ending up on Zola, who squeaks with surprise.

Viv turns on the little boy angrily. " _Don't_. You splashed her!"

Meredith prepares to intervene.

"Sorry," says the little boy. "It was an accident."

Vivian seems mollified by this.

His sister joins the group. "Wanna play tag?"

Meredith watches Vivian consult with Zola, who nods.

"'kay," Vivian says, "but Zola's little so you have to play nice."

" _Not_ little," Zola reminds her.

The little boy grins and looks at his sister. "Taylor's it!"

 _Taylor's the girl and Dylan's the boy,_ Meredith notes with some relief, watching the children swim together, Viv sticking close to Zola and pulling her out of the way when Taylor gets too close.

"My husband and I are both from big families," Cyn says. "We like to let them work things out on their own. Or as Jim says … either they'll get along, or they'll kill each other, but either way it will be quiet."

Meredith laughs in spite of herself.

…

With the Texans on a snack break and Zola happily churning the water a foot or so away, _I'm swimming by myself,_ she told them proudly, Viv floats toward Meredith, then pauses, treading water in front of her.

"Meredith …"

"Yeah?"

"Do you love your baby?"

Meredith tries not to show her surprise at the rather strange question. She doesn't have to ask Viv which baby she means. "Yeah, I do."

Vivian glances over her shoulder, then lowers her voice. "More than Zola?"

Ah.

"No, not more than Zola."

"Do you love _Zola_ more?" Vivian switches it up.

"I love them both … the most."

"But what if you had to pick?"

"That's not really how it works with parents and kids," Meredith tells her gently, hoping her discomfort isn't too obvious. "There's enough love to go around. More than enough. One day you'll see that when you have your own babies."

"I'm never having babies," Viv says firmly.

"You're not?" Meredith smiles at her, hoping to move away from the intensity of the moment. Viv's indignant expression is endearing.

"Nope. Babies kill you," Viv says matter-of-factly, and then she turns and plunges under the surface of the pool, swimming all the way to the other side underwater.

…

Carolyn is pensive when Derek returns to her hospital room. She's sitting up in the pink straight-backed chair with a blanket over her lap, and except for the absence of knitting and grandchildren and the omnipresent cedar scent of her drawer liners, she could be home at the house in Connecticut.

He leans over to kiss her cheek.

"She was already sick when she came to my scan, wasn't she." His mother looks at him for confirmation and Derek nods. "She didn't tell me, just … talked about the surgery. She didn't have to do that."

"She wanted to," Derek says quietly.

"She's too young to be sick."

Derek glances around his mother's hospital room.

"I've lived my life. My children are grown, most of my grandchildren are – " she stops, then smiles a little. "Except for Zola," she says.

"The twins are still young," Derek says, and the memory of Nancy's two youngest backing away from him in their frilly purple bedroom makes his stomach tighten a bit. Hopefully they're okay. Hopefully … Nancy knows what she's doing.

"The twins are still young," his mother repeats, her tone fond. "But they're growing up quickly. Do you know they have _phones_?" She says _phones_ like it's a synonym for _turning tricks on the street corner_ , but then again his mother resisted buying a cell phone herself for years until her three oldest ganged up on her.

He's aware the twins have phones. He has a bruise on his shin that won't let him forget it, a bruise he acquired trying to confiscate Joy's pink phone.

But they are young. Thirteen. Twelve? Either way, much too young to be caught up in Jesse's downward spiral.

Then again … Jesse's too young too.

"Is something troubling you?"

His mother used to ask him that when he was a teenager. She worried, he realized even then, that Derek would suffer the most without a father. No male parental role model. So she tried to get him along sometimes, in low pressure situations, driving him to baseball practice or asking for his help digging out the Christmas ornaments from the basement. _Is something troubling you?_

"My mother's in the hospital," he says.

"Come now." His mother gives him a knowing look. "I'm doing _remarkably_ well, isn't that what Dr. Fairbanks said? I'm fairly certain I remember it correctly."

"You did make her repeat it twice," Derek teases.

"I'd make her print it on a sweatshirt if I could," his mother retorts. "Not bad for an old woman."

"You're not old."

"I'm older than a lot of the women here." His mother looks pensive again. "Is that what's bothering you? Addison being sick?"

He's not sure how to answer that.

"Mark looked worn out," his mother observes quietly. "He's been taking care of that little girl on his own…."

"With Amy's help," Derek reminds her.

"Yes." His mother looks down at the blanket on her lap. "Amy does penance in a lot of ways."

"Penance?"

His mother looks up and smiles briefly, then glances away, her well-known signal for _this discussion is closed._

"Mark is having a hard time, I think," Derek says tentatively, "with everything. Anyone would, I know, but …"

"But he's Mark." Carolyn sighs. "I would imagine he's missed you."

Derek doesn't respond.

"What he did was terrible," Carolyn says quietly. "But I don't think he's ever been as close to anyone as he was to you."

"It's been – "

"- years, I know. It's just a hunch."

Derek considers this.

"Vivian is six?" Carolyn asks.

Her tone is light but Derek grasps the meaning.

"Not yet, I think. She's tall for her age," Derek says, as if that was what his mother was hinting at.

"Ah." Carolyn nods. "It must be difficult for her."

Derek thinks about Vivian's sad little face, the one that looks so much like Mark's from his childhood … except with the weight of the world reflected in it.

"Yeah," he says finally. "It is."

"Meredith has taken her under her wing ...?"

"In a manner of speaking." Derek pauses. "Vivan's not the … easiest child. Not that it's her fault," he adds, not wanting to sound like he's blaming a little girl for the unfortunate circumstances of her family. "It's … complicated, but Meredith was insistent on … helping her. I don't know why," he admits.

"Because she's a mother," Carolyn says simply.

…

Meredith and the girls outlast Cyn and her children and are soon the only ones in the pool again. After a quick break for a snack, they're back in the water. Meredith sits on the steps as Zola pokes one little foot into the pool and takes it out again.

"Cold!"

"It's warm when you get in," Viv says wisely, having already jumped off the side. She's treading water in front of them now.

Zola lounges against her mother, her cold little hands seeking warmth.

"That's my brother," Zola tells Viv proudly, patting Meredith's belly.

Viv's eyes skate over Meredith. "I have a brother too," she says.

"Like mine?" Zola's eyes widen. "In _your_ mommy?"

Viv nods.

Zola's little face wrinkles with confusion. "Where's your mommy?"

"Zo…" Meredith prepares to intercede. "They've been through this before, and Vivian handled it well, but …

"In the hospital," Viv says. "'Cause she's sick. But it's her own fault," she adds without discernible emotion.

Meredith swallows hard, chilled by her words. It's obvious people have been talking around Vivian without realizing how much she picks up … or how much she retains.

"Viv," she begins carefully.

"Zola, try to catch me!" Viv says, and she swims off, purposefully slow to let Zola catch up and grab her, both girls' laughter echoing off the walls.

…

"The swimmers are back!" Derek smiles at them as he opens the door to the apartment. Zola jumps into his arms and he gives her a squeeze despite her dampness and the strong smell of chlorine.

"I'll get her in the bath." He leans over to kiss Meredith.

"Hey, Vivian," he adds, noticing the serious-looking little girl standing next to his wife, long wet braids hanging over her shoulders. "Did you have a nice time at the pool?"

She nods without looking at him.

"What's the plan?" Derek asks Meredith. "Is Mark –"

Vivian looks up at her father's name.

"I'm going to take Vivian home," Meredith says quickly.

"I can – "

"No, Zola hasn't seen you all day and I don't think she'll approve." Meredith smiles; Zola is hanging tightly to her father's neck, pausing in her stream of consciousness about their pool day to plant enthusiastic kisses on his face.

"Okay," Derek says. "You know where – "

She nods.

"Take a cab," Derek says.

"We will."

"How come Zola didn't come with us?" Viv asks as they walk through the air conditioned lobby.

"She's tired," Meredith tells Vivian. "Zola's littler than you, so she needs more sleep."

"Oh." Viv kicks at the curb with one of her little flip-flops. "Are we gonna walk home?"

"I think we'll take a cab."

"I can hail it," Vivian says.

Meredith smiles. "Go for it."

Vivian flags down a cab like a pro, gives the cab driver her address and then flops back against the leather seat like a tired commuter. The blaring commercial screen bursts on and Viv glances at Meredith. "My dad says having TV in cabs is barbaric," she says.

Meredith smiles again. "What do you think?"

"I like it," Viv says, turning back to the screen. She's engrossed in a colorful advertisement for a Broadway show.

The townhouse looks darkened when they arrive and Meredith is doubtful for a moment. Mark said he was home, but …

She lets Viv run ahead of her up the stairs, but then she turns back before Meredith reaches the door.

"Meredith …"

"Yeah?"

Viv looks pensive, and sad. Instinctively, Meredith brushes back some of her damp flyaways, tucking them back into her braids, and is heartened when the little girl doesn't draw away from her touch.

Vivian leans in a little closer. "Don't tell my dad what I said, okay?" Her voice is almost too quiet for Meredith to hear her.

"What do you mean, Viv?"

"He doesn't like to talk about babies," she explains. "You're not supposed to … I don't think he likes babies at all."

"Ah." Meredith pauses and then sits down on the stoop, patting the space next to her.

Vivian considers the offer for a moment and then sits down too.

"You didn't say anything wrong," Meredith tells her gently.

Viv looks conflicted. "Just don't tell him," she suggests.

"Viv…"

"He gets mad if you talk about babies. He doesn't want any more babies." Vivian pauses. "I _think_ he wanted me … but I'm not sure."

Meredith feels her stomach tighten. The more Viv talks, the more she thinks she _does_ need to talk to Mark about what his daughter seems to have taken away from his conflicts with her mother.

"Viv," she starts gently, but the little girl interrupts before she can finish.

"Let's go inside," she says.

Meredith hesitates, then stands up. Maybe she can get a moment with Mark alone after she drops Vivian off.

When they're both standing on the stoop, Viv pauses, one hand on the door.

"Meredith?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for letting me swim with you." And her face moves into a genuine smile that crinkles up her blue eyes. For a moment Meredith glimpses the happy little girl she once must have been.

"Thank _you_ for letting _me_ swim with you," Meredith teases gently.

Viv nods, and then the smile drops off her face as she bangs on the door with one little fist before Meredith can stop her or suggest the bell.

Mark pulls the door open within a moment. "There's my mermaid." He lifts one of Vivian's damp braids and tickles her cheek with the end. "How was it?"

"Good," Viv says, handing him her little swim bag.

"Yeah? Good." Mark strokes the top of her head, looking distracted. "Thanks so much for taking her," he tells Meredith, who's followed them into the foyer, wondering if she'll be able to grab a quick moment with Mark. Maybe Amy is here to keep an eye on Vivian.

"Did she give you any trouble?"

"None. She was great," Meredith says immediately, noticing the little girl's look of relief. "Actually, um, I was wondering if –"

"Daddy!"

Suddenly Meredith notices that Viv is still standing exactly where she left her, eyes wide. Meredith is confused … but by the look on Mark's face she guesses he isn't.

"Vivi," Mark says calmly, reaching out for her, "c'mere, baby, I want to talk to you for a minute."

Vivian doesn't move. She's staring at the living room Meredith hasn't even really glimpsed yet other than to see that the lights are dim and feel the rather stale air.

She's not sure what Vivian is picking up on but her eyes widen even further.

"Mommy's home," she whispers. " _Mommy's home?_ " She looks at Mark. "You didn't tell me!" Her tone is hurt and accusing.

"Viv, wait –"

It's too late; she's already turned and lunged for the stairs, Mark on her heels.

* * *

 _To be continued. Always. Enjoy? Have questions? When you were a kid, did you wear swimmies or just get tossed in the deep end like a Spartan? Review and tell me any of those things. Love to all of you, especially those in a southwesterly direction.  
_


	26. INTERLUDE: danny's song

**A/N: Happy Friday, beautiful readers.** I wasn't necessarily planning a flashback chapter, but here we are. It just kinda happened, partially inspired by the reviewer who asked for more MerDer interaction. You're right - they've been dividing and conquering the Shepherd/Sloan chaos, but they're a team and here's an interlude to remind us of that. Warning: they call it Fluffy Friday for a reason. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

INTERLUDE

 _danny's song  
..._

* * *

"That's _not_ pink."

"It's a little pink…" Meredith attempts hopefully, squinting at the online purchase she's just unwrapped.

Zola reaches out one tiny finger and touches the fabric gingerly. "It's _red_ ," she says, in the tone one might expect to hear _it's covered in maggots._

"It's a … dark pink … ?"

Zola makes a face and then turns and flees the room.

"Zo?"

Her daughter trots back into the living room holding a well-worn board book Meredith recognizes without reading the title, which happens to be _My Colorful World._

"See, Mommy," Zola says authoritatively, pointing to the page with red balloon, red apple, and red galoshes. " _Red_."

"I do see."

Zola turns the page. "See, Mommy." And she points to her favorite page, the one with the chewed corner, boasting a pink tulip, a flamingo, and a juicy-looking wedge of pink grapefruit. " _That_ is pink."

"I see, Zozo."

Zola gives the little t-shirt a look of distaste, and then points to the pink page. "No," she says, and then turns back to the red page. " _Yes._ "

She gives her mother a triumphant look.

"Okay, okay, I give up." Meredith folds the little t-shirt back up. "It's red."

Truthfully, she's rather impressed at her daughter's thorough research and argument skills. She has a couple of interns who could learn something from her.

She studies the receipt at the bottom of the box: the color of her purchase is identified as " _Blinking Rose._ "

What the hell is blinking rose, anyway?

Maybe online advertisers should use actual color names instead of making everything too flowery to understand.

"This is Mommy's fault," Meredith sighs. "Because I ordered it from Amazon instead of going to a store because, you know, _surgeon_ … and it really did look pink online."

Her daughter has picked up on only one key word in the sentence, it seems; her eyes brighten noticeably.

"Amazon?" Zola asks eagerly.

Meredith laughs at her tone. "I see you sympathize with my plight."

Zola pats her arm.

"So," Meredith puts on her most optimistic smile, "will you wear the shirt?"

"No, thank you," Zola says politely.

 _This is my fault. We encouraged her to pick out her own things. Be independent! Have opinions! And now the one time I want to make the call …_

"Mommy can wear a red shirt, too. We can match."

"No red shirt!" Zola looks like Meredith has just offered to wear a suit of bees.

"Okay." Meredith considers it. "What if … you wear the shirt, but we pink it up by adding a tutu? A _pink_ tutu."

Zola considers this.

"We could also add a pink lollipop…"

 _I bribe with candy. I'm that mom. Tell no one._

"Maybe," Zola says finally, dragging out the two syllables.

…

Zola frowns at her reflection in the full-length mirror – an odd choice, since Meredith doesn't think any other human would be able to look without grinning madly at the tiny girl in her red _WORLD'S BEST BIG SISTER_ shirt, fluffy pink net tutu, and silver tiara atop two puffy pigtails.

"Yuck," Zola says firmly. " _No_."

"But the shirt looks _really_ pink in this light," Meredith attempts, and Zola gives her an unimpressed look Meredith previously thought wouldn't develop until the teenage years.

 _Oh god, the teenage years._

Meredith forces herself to focus. The teenage years are far away. Here, now, the _current_ years – the toddler years, the little years, the princess-tea-party years – that's where they are.

Still, she feels a pang that Zola won't always be this small, this sweet and soft and interested in spending time with her parents.

And even before that … she won't be an only child anymore.

Zola attempts to take off the shirt and only manages to pull it up over her round little tummy, which Meredith can't resist tickling. Her daughter shrieks with glee, and then her face turns pensive.

"Mommy."

"Yes, Zozo."

"Baby in there?" She points to Meredith's stomach. They've only been practicing this for a few hours and Zola has been alternately fascinated, dubious, and indifferent.

"Yes, there's a baby in there."

Zola tugs at the hem of Meredith's thermal shirt. "Lemme see."

Meredith lets her lift the shirt and inspect her still-flat stomach. Zola pokes it quizzically. "Where?"

"Inside, sweetie, so you can't see the baby, but it's in there."

"I wanna see."

"Me too," Meredith confesses.

"Take it out," Zola suggests with enthusiasm. She holds out two little hands welcomingly.

Meredith can't help smiling. "Not yet, Zo. You know what … the baby has to stay in there a while to grow nice and big. We have to wait until it's all done growing and then it will come out and see us."

Her heart thumps a little.

 _Until it's all done growing._

Zola looks like she's turning over her mother's words in her mind.

"All done?"

"Right, we have to wait until it's all done growing."

"Okay," Zola says tentatively, and then she brightens. "Tomorrow?"

Meredith smiles. "Not tomorrow … a few tomorrows away still. A lot of tomorrows away."

"When?"

Zola has reached the stage recently where she's interested in inquiring about time, but has no real concept of it yet, which might be a little frustrating in its repetition were it not so adorable.

Her little brow furrows. "Tomorrow?"

"Basically," Meredith says. "Tomorrow … but after Christmas."

Zola accepts this, miraculously – maybe an early Christmas miracle? – and turns her attention back to her shirt. Pulling on the hem, she points at her own rounded belly. "Baby in here?"

"No, sweetie, that's just your cute tummy."

Zola pokes experimentally at it. "Maybe a baby in here," she suggests.

"Definitely not," Meredith kisses her cheek, "and somehow I don't think Daddy wouldn't appreciate that announcement as much as the one we're planning."

"Where's Daddy?" Zola perks up at the mention of his name.

"Working. But he's coming home soon … and we're going to surprise him."

"Yeah!" Zola's enthusiasm is contagious. She twirls around the bathroom a few times, tutu bouncing merrily, then stops. "Daddy's birthday?"

"Nope … we're surprising him with something else."

"What?"

"With the baby," Meredith tells her, smiling at Zola's wide eyes.

"With the _baby_?"

Meredith nods. "Daddy doesn't know yet that there's a baby in here," she explains, patting her stomach, "so we're going to tell him … with this." Meredith tugs her daughter's little shirt back down and then points to it.

"It's red," Zola reminds her mother darkly.

"I know, sweetie, and I'm sure Daddy will be as disappointed about the color scheme as we are … but maybe the surprise will make up for it."

This seems to satisfy her daughter, who stops trying to remove her shirt and instead requests some grapes.

All in all, it seems like a fair exchange, Meredith decides, especially since Zola eschews any grapes that aren't perfectly round and chooses to feed them to her mother instead.

"Mommy," she pauses mid-grape. "Baby's hungry?"

Meredith smiles. "No, the baby's not hungry. The baby eats what Mommy eats."

Zola considers this. "Baby wants a grape?"

"Sure." Meredith opens her mouth and Zola inspects the grapes on the silicone mat in front of her before choosing one that looks, to Meredith, just like the others.

"Yum," Meredith smiles. "Thank you for sharing with the baby," she adds.

 _Let's hope you're still willing to do it when the baby's really here._

…

"It's Daddy! It's Daddy!" Zola shrieks when they hear the rustle of keys at the front door, in a tone suggesting she's been separated from her father for months on end rather than a few hours since his latest day-care drop-in – which resulted in some pretty adorable pictures texted to Meredith's phone.

"Daddy's home," Meredith agrees with her in excitement if not in volume.

"I'm gonna hide!" Zola exclaims. "For my surprise!"

"Great idea."

Zola has buried herself gleefully beneath a pile of pillows on the couch by the time her father pushes the door open.

"Hey." Derek leans in to kiss his wife, then looks around. "Where's Zo?"

"Ooh, I don't know, I can't find her," Meredith says loudly enough for Zola to hear. Derek smiles, catching on quickly.

"You can't find Zola? Well, what are we going to do about that?"

"I guess we have to look for her," Meredith spreads her hands in mock confusion.

A muffled giggle floats up from under the pillows on the couch.

"I guess so," Derek says sadly. "Boy, I was really hoping to see her. Where should we start looking?"

Another giggle, this one much louder.

"The kitchen?" Meredith suggests.

"Great idea."

In the kitchen they make a show of opening cabinets and pulling out drawers, expressing their disappointment not to find their daughter.

Derek pulls her close for a moment as she passes him by, then notices the opened box on the counter. "Amazon? Don't tell me Zola figured out how to checkout a cart of her own toys."

"Not yet, but I think it's coming," Meredith says, hopefully smoothly enough that he'll forget she hasn't answered his question. She rests her hands on his chest. "You know Wexler, in radiology? His son apparently ordered some whole … _Nintendo thing._ And he's only four."

" _Nintendo thing_? Mer … your age is showing," Derek teases her.

"And it's a lot less than yours," she retorts.

He pulls her closer, taking advantage of their relative privacy to nip at her neck. "That's not very nice," he chastises her.

"Well, I have no reason to be nice if this is how you're going to act when I'm not."

Derek pulls back, looking serious. "You're right. I give terrible incentives." He steals one more kiss. "So," and he raises his voice to full volume, "where is our child?"

"I have no idea, Derek, I was hoping _you_ could find her."

The giggles from the couch are getting loud enough that people in Vancouver could probably locate Zola, but they still spend a few more minutes peeking under toys, in cabinets, and around corners, their daughter's excitement increasing with every failed attempt to find her.

"Wait a minute … " Derek's face scrunches up as if he's thinking very hard. "Mer, did we forget to check somewhere?"

"Did we?"

"I think we did."

"Maybe we did. But where?"

"Hmm, I don't know," Derek muses. "Maybe … _here_?" Quick as a cat he's at the couch whipping the pile of pillows away and Zola is shrieking with delight.

"You found me! You found me!" She hurls herself at her father, a little red and pink blur.

"I sure did. I will _always_ find you," Derek hugs her tightly and she settles against him, her little torso flush against his. "Hey, I like your outfit, Zozo," he touches the tulle of her pink tutu, "but what are you doing in a red shirt?"

"Mommy made me," Zola says mournfully, head still buried in her father's shoulder.

Derek looks over at his wife. "Meredith … is this what you do to our baby when I'm not home? Violate her color preferences?"

"You caught me." Meredith smiles, then looks at her daughter. "Hey, Zo, do you want to show –"

"And _then_ we had grapes," Zola interrupts, still clinging to her father as she narrates their evening with great ceremony, "purple ones but some of them were bad."

"Bad as in not perfectly spherical," Meredith clarifies.

"Well, that's terrible," Derek says sympathetically. "What did you do with the bad ones?"

"Feeded them to Mommy."

Derek looks like he's stifling a laugh. "Sounds like they didn't go to waste."

Zola nods against his shirt.

"Did Mommy like them?"

"Yeah and the baby did too."

Meredith freezes. Zola must have remembered what she said earlier. _The baby eats what Mommy eats._

"Oh yeah?" Derek asks. "The baby had some too?"

"Uh-huh," Zola confirms, still snuggled against him with the message of her shirt hidden from view.

Derek smiles. Meredith realizes he hasn't noticed anything amiss; Zola has a number of baby dolls she likes to try to feed, occasionally with such vigor that her parents have to throw them in the washing machine when she's asleep.

"Baby's _really_ little," Zola babbles cheerfully. "So little."

"Babies _are_ really little. But then they get big, like you," and Derek pokes her gently in the ribs, making her giggle.

"I'm big," Zola agrees, " _so_ big, I'm all done growing."

"Oh, you are? Well, that's convenient." He glances up at Meredith with a smile. "She's going to stay nice and portable.

Meredith smiles back. "Hey, Zozo, do you want to show Daddy –"

"I _can't_ see the baby," she tells her father in a dramatic whisper, as if she's sharing a very important confidence.

"You can't?"

"I can't." Zola wriggles in her father's arms and Meredith holds her breath for a moment – surely Derek will notice – but Zola's so quick that within a second she's facing outward, kneeling on her father's lap, the celebratory message of her t-shirt facing Meredith.

Happily, Zola points to the message written across her chest, beaming at her mother. Meredith smiles weakly, trying to gesture for her to turn around without making Derek suspicious.

"Why can't you see the baby, Zo?" Derek asks conversationally, jiggling his legs a little bit to make Zola laugh.

"Whoa!" She giggles. "Again, horsey," she commands.

Derek takes her hands to keep her steady and repeats his movements.

"Giddyap!" Zola bounces on her knees. "Faster, horsey!"

"Horseys like when you say please," Derek teases her.

"Please, horsey!"

Meredith covers her face with one hand, giving up on the surprise.

 _I mean … he'll figure it out eventually_.

Like maybe when she gives birth.

"I know. I know. I'm riling her up. I'm _that_ dad." Derek grins at Meredith, misinterpreting her expression of concern. "Sorry. Hey, Zozo … how about Daddy gives you a bath?"

"No," Zola says immediately, even though it's just on principle; she loves bath time.

"Okay, then I guess I'll have to play with your rubber duckies all by myself," Derek says sadly.

"No, my duckies!"

"Then it must be bathtime."

Zola pauses and Meredith tries to point her toward Derek, whirling her hand a bit to get Zola to turn around. Derek gives her a puzzled look. "Mer … you okay?"

"Oh, yeah," she says airily. "Just … stretching out my fingers."

He looks a little dubious.

"It's a new … technique. For dexterity. Bailey recommends it."

"If you say so." Derek tugs very lightly on one of Zola's pigtails. "Okay, Zo, let's get you ready for your bath."

"Yeah!" Zola grabs at the hem of her little red shirt and tugs on it.

Meredith freezes … again.

Is she really going to take the shirt off before Derek can read the announcement?

Then she's relieved, because Zola can't take her own shirts off yet, which means Derek will have to help and he'll see the front of it when he does. Thank goodness for –

"Wow!" Derek beams. "Zozo, you're such a big girl! Mer, did you see that?"

"Yeah, I saw it," Meredith sighs.

Derek frowns. "She hasn't done that before. Has she? She got the shirt off all by herself!"

"She did," Meredith forces her lips into a smile, feigning enthusiasm. "Great work, Zozo!"

"It's _red_ ," Zola reminds her mother one last time and then, shirtless but still wearing an enormous pink netted tutu and a tiara, she bolts toward the bathroom. " _My_ duckies!" she yells over her shoulder as she runs and Derek follows her, leaving the little red shirt crumpled up inside out on the living room floor.

…

They take turns cuddling a clean and sleepy Zola as she dries off, and then Meredith takes over storytime so Derek can shower. He's sitting at the kitchen island looking at some notes when she pads out of Zola's room; looking up, he smiles at her.

"Did she go down?"

Meredith nods. "Reluctantly, but yes."

Derek rubs his jaw tiredly. "It's hard to imagine being reluctant to go to sleep."

"Yeah, I think she'll grow out of it by the time she graduates from medical school."

Derek grins. "Dr. Zo. I hope her patients won't mind if she insists on wearing a tiara during consults."

Meredith laughs.

Together, she and Derek move tiredly through the open living room like they do every night, picking up scattered toys. Meredith scoops a pink and white sippy cup from the floor and brings it to the kitchen.

"So, Zola asked me to read _The Pony and the Butterfly_ from back to front," she tells Derek as she rinses the cup, "and I did, and somehow it took twice as long, which seems scientifically wrong, right? I mean, you'd think that –"

She suddenly notices that her husband hasn't moved; he's standing still with his back to her in front of the couch.

"Derek?"

He doesn't move.

"Derek, are you okay?" Nervously, she approaches him.

He turns around slowly, holding Zola's little red shirt in both his hands.

Except it's not inside out any longer.

And the message is clear.

"Oh," she says quietly.

Derek opens his mouth, then closes it again. His eyes are very bright. "Is it … ." He looks from the shirt to Meredith. "Is it true?"

She nods, feeling a tickle in her throat that has nothing to do with the pollen in the air.

"Really?"

"Really."

He looks at the shirt one more time, then drops it and covers the distance between them in two loping steps, sweeping her into his arms.

She laughs as she feels her feet leave the ground; he turns with her in his arms and marvels out loud, lips close to her ear, _I can't believe it, I can't believe it._

She shifts a little in his arms and he freezes. "Is this too tight? Am I hurting you?" Derek asks nervously.

"Derek, I'm pregnant, not breakable." As if to prove her points, she holds him a little tighter.

"You're pregnant." Saying the words seems to stun him. "You're _pregnant_ ," he repeats, setting her very gently back on her feet.

His lips find hers. "We're having another baby," he murmurs between kisses that start softly and turn more heated.

"We're having another baby," she agrees, smiling against his mouth, moaning a little when his fingers start soothing the tired muscles of her shoulders.

He pulls back for a moment. "Mer," he says softly, his voice thick.

"I know," she whispers, and this time her feet stay on the ground as she wraps her arms around her husband's waist and rests her cheek against the soft fabric of his shirt.

…

"Derek …" She glances up at him from her very close vantage point, tucked into his side in their bed; he's still beaming, his eyes almost dazed. "Derek, are you happy?"

"Yes! Why, don't I seem happy?"

"I'm teasing." Meredith leans over to kiss him. "You haven't stopped smiling … and I'm starting to get worried about mandibular strain."

"Very amusing." He pulls her in for another kiss. "But I forgive you … since you _are_ the mother of my children."

"Children," Meredith repeats. "Children, _plural_ … oh my god."

Her eyes fall onto the framed picture on her bedside of Derek holding Zola, one of the first pictures she has of them; they're in the hospital; he's beaming and the smiling baby fits perfectly in his arms.

"She was so small," Meredith marvels. Compared to the smiling little bundle in Derek's arms, present-day Zola with her ever-expanding vocabulary, impish sense of mischief, and delight in coordinating activities seems like a completely different child.

Derek smiles, looking nostalgic. "Hard to believe."

"That she was so small?"

"That she was so new," he says quietly. "I feel like –"

"- like she's always been ours."

He nods. They're both quiet for a moment, and Meredith is flooded with memories of their earliest days as parents, catching bursts of sleep with a fitful Zola between them in bed, slowly healing and adjusting to her new life. They threw every ounce of energy into her.

"It's going to be different with two," Derek says quietly, as if he's reading her mind. "We'll have the new baby … and our old baby too."

Meredith smiles at the term _old baby._

"How do _you_ feel?" Derek asks, shifting their handhold so he's playing with their fingers.

"I'm … a little nervous. Maybe." Meredith glances at him. "Derek … you're still smiling."

"I'm sorry." He lifts a pillow to cover the lower half of his face. "Better?"

Now she's smiling too. "Much. Thank you. Being … pregnant … is new," she admits.

"It's new to me too."

"You're not pregnant," she reminds him.

"This is true."

She hides a smile. "Derek…"

"I'm listening, Mer."

"It's just new." She pauses. "The thing is … you just don't know what could go wrong."

"Or we do," he challenges gently, "because we're both doctors who've seen too much."

She considers this. "Zola was actually sick," she says softly, not really wanting to remember that time, "and this baby isn't … anything, yet."

"Zola's different," Derek says. "She was already _here_ , and yes, she had medical problems but they were the kind we knew how to fix. And now she's perfect."

"She was always perfect."

"I couldn't agree more."

She snuggles against him, with the fleeting thought that she'd like to say something else – _I love you,_ or _thank you for making this family with me,_ or … but sleep overtakes her before she can make another sound so she'll have to settle for the security that he already knows.

…

A loud cry interrupts their peaceful slumber.

"Zo!" They sit up in bed at the same time and Derek flicks on the bedside lamp.

Their daughter is standing in the doorway of the bedroom in pink pajamas printed with bright yellow honeybees, rubbing her eyes and sniffling. She pads to their bedside as soon as the light comes on and Derek leans over to scoop her onto the bed.

"What's wrong, sweetie?"

Zola cuddles into the blue t-shirt he wore to sleep and doesn't answer, just whimpering a little. Meredith reaches out to rub her daughter's back gently.

"Did you have a bad dream?"

Zola nods against Derek's chest.

"It was just a dream," Meredith reassures her. "Everything's okay."

Zola sniffles a little, stretching out one pudgy little hand to draw her mother closer, and for a few moments the three of them share an embrace. Zola's little body starts to grow heavier as she calms.

Zola leans back a little so she can see her parents. "Bad dream," she repeats softly.

"What was it about?" Derek asks, brushing a remaining tear off her cheek with one finger.

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Zola looks from her mother to her father. "About a _bunny rabbit_ ," she whispers.

Meredith forces down a smile. "That sounds scary, Zozo."

"Yeah, really scary." Zola glances from parent to parent again. "I sleep here," she suggests hopefully.

Meredith and Derek exchange a glance. She's been doing remarkably well staying in her own bed. And so proud of her big-girl bed with its pink and white sheets and cuddly raccoon-head pillow.

Zola winds one little hand into her mother's hair like she used to when she was much smaller.

"Yes, you can sleep here," Meredith says.

Derek leans over to kiss her cheek, and then whispers in her ear so only she can hear: "There is a _baby_ in our bed." Meredith stifles a laugh, hitting him with her pillow.

"I sleep here," Zola repeats, sounding miraculously recovered from her traumatic dream, and cuddles into her mother's side, one pudgy hand wrapped around the side of Derek's hand – still so small, and reminding her again of a much younger Zola. Of their first baby.

Meredith looks at her husband and can tell he's remembering too.

"Lights out now," he says softly, and then the room is plunged into comforting darkness, moonlight just bright enough to illuminate the silhouettes of the two people she loves most.

"Good night, sweetie," Meredith murmurs, stroking Zola's head.

"Good night, Zozo." Derek's voice is soft next to her.

"Night, Daddy. Night, Mommy," Zola pats Meredith's hair. "…night, baby," she adds quietly, patting Meredith's belly.

"Zo," Meredith whispers, "did you just say goodnight to the baby?"

"Shhh," Zola orders Meredith sleepily. "Baby's a _surprise_."

With that her breath deepens into slumber.

"We might need to work on surprises," Meredith murmurs to Derek, amused.

"Actually … I think you pulled off this one pretty perfectly."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Derek says, shifting so he's holding her while a sleeping Zola is curled contentedly into her side. "Meredith … thank you."

"For what?"

"For …" Derek pauses, maybe trying to figure it out himself. "Thank you," he repeats instead of clarifying, a little helplessly, and Meredith _does_ know so she doesn't push him.

"My pleasure," she says softly, leaning up for a good night kiss. "Good night, Derek."

"Good night, Meredith." His hand slips down to touch her still-flat stomach. "Good night, baby," he adds and Meredith smiles into the darkness.

…

 _Love the girl who holds the world in a paper cup  
Drink it up  
Love her and she'll bring you luck  
And if you find she helps your mind, better take her home  
Don't you live alone  
Try to earn what lovers own_

…

* * *

 ** _Okay, I had to get that out. Next chapter: back to our regularly scheduled angst._**

PS All of my chapter titles for this story have been song titles because, you know, I'm a Shonda junkie like the rest of us. I figure you'll find the songs if you want to BUT for this one … please find it if you don't know it, and if you do know it, listen to it. Maybe some of you remember it the first time around, or like me when the 70s came back in the 90s, and for you youngster, now that the 90s are back in the 2010s, listen to this beauty. There's something about it, despite the very different scenario, that reminds me of MerDer.  
Lyrics from Loggins & Messina's _Danny's Song_. I know these flashbacks aren't as plot-moving as the real-time chapters, but I like fleshing out their backstory – kinda the same, kinda different – and I'd love to know what you think. So please review and let me know, or review and tell me which iteration of the 70s you experienced!


	27. this was pompeii

**A/N: You guys are the absolute best. Reviewers affected by Irma, your generosity in taking the time to reply with all that's going on is astounding. We are all pulling for you and fiction - even the fan variety - is the best escapism for a reason. Thank you. xxx**

* * *

 _this was pompeii_  
...

* * *

 _"Viv, wait –"_

 _It's too late; she's already turned and lunged for the stairs, Mark on her heels._

Vivian is fast but Mark is faster; he intercepts her on the third step and she protests violently as he picks her up.

"I said, _wait_. Stop it, Viv, just calm down – "

Meredith stands awkwardly in the foyer watching Mark try unsuccessfully to contain his daughter's flailing limbs as she's borne unwillingly down the stairs.

Viv's shouts of rage turn suddenly to a howl of pain as one furiously kicking foot connects forcefully with the banister.

Mark curses when he realizes she's hurt, then takes advantage of her surprise at the injury to restrain her more effectively as he brings her into the living room. "It's okay. It's _okay._ Calm down. Let me see your foot."

She doesn't.

"Let me look, baby. Come on, stop kicking," he orders her, and Meredith watches helplessly as Mark finally drops onto the couch, holding an agitated Vivian half on his lap while he tries to get a look at her foot. Meredith can see even from her vantage point that it's starting to swell; at least one of her little toes appears to be injured, if not broken.

Viv isn't having it; she shoves at her father's hands as he attempts to soothe her, crying angrily, a stream of accusations that Meredith can't make out spilling from her lips.

"Mark … what on earth?"

Meredith looks up at the voice from above to see Addison, standing at the top of the second floor landing with a hand resting on the banister rail, looking almost wraithlike in the shadows with long hair loose around her shoulders. She's wearing what looks like a silk robe and even from this distance the contrast between her angular body at the soft roundness at her midsection is obvious.

"Mommy," Vivian shrieks, still trying to wrestle her way out of Mark's hold.

"Addie, it's okay, I'll bring her up in a minute," Mark calls in her direction. "Vivi, _stop_ ," he hisses to his daughter. "Stop yelling, I mean it."

"Is she hurt?" Addison's voice sounds tired and a little bit hoarse. "What happened?"

"Nothing. She's fine."

Mark gives Viv a sharp look.

"Vivi?" Addison's voice floats downstairs again, her tone a little hesitant.

Mark nudges her.

"I'm okay, Mommy," Viv calls bravely.

Addison is looking uncertainly over the railing, one hand resting on the banister; Meredith realizes she must be out of the other woman's view.

And then she's gone.

Vivian cries for her mother – more quietly than before, but she still twists away angrily when Mark tries to cuddle her. "Come on, baby, just calm down and let me look at your foot and then we'll get you cleaned up and you can see her."

"I want her now," she whimpers.

"You have to calm down first. I _told_ you to wait. You didn't listen to me and now you're hurt."

"I want to see Mommy!"

"Vivian. Listen to me."

"I'll … get some ice," Meredith offers.

No one agrees – but no one objects, so she finds her way through the unfamiliar space on instinct and luck until she finds the kitchen. It's large and comfortably decorated, but it has the same lingering sense of disuse at the living room. The refrigerator – vast and stainless – has … _normal_ things on it, cards and pictures and calendars, lists of things.

It feels like the kind of space that should be in a photography exhibit or a _missing_ poster, a perfectly preserved moment in time that doesn't exist anymore. Like those spaces people fled without bringing anything with them.

The thought makes her sad. She wrestles the freezer drawer open and finds one of those little beaded ice packs; it's bright pink and soft, small enough for Viv's small foot.

When she finds her way back to the living room, Mark is still trying to calm his daughter down.

"Okay, Vivi, you're okay. Just calm down," Mark soothes; Vivian is still crying, though, and she pushes Mark's hands away furiously when he tries to wipe her face.

"I want to see her," she whimpers.

"I know, but you need to listen to me first. Mommy is resting, she needs _quiet._ "

"I can be quiet."

"I know you can," Mark says softly. "So quiet down now, and then you need to get cleaned up and wash your hands. But first you need to let me look at your – Viv, come _on_ , you're not listening."

Meredith approaches the end of the couch with the pink ice bag; both Mark's hands are full and he's still trying to calm Vivian down even as his tone grows more impatient. He gives Meredith a brief nod and she attempts to put the ice on Viv's little foot, as gently as she can around her swelling toes.

Vivian flinches at her touch and kicks out with her uninjured foot, Meredith scooting out of the way before the little foot can make contact.

"Hey!" Mark grabs Viv's flailing ankle and holds it still. " _Don't_ you kick her," he scolds her angrily. "What's the matter with you? Do you want to hurt the baby?"

Viv has gone suddenly quiet, her eyes round with fear.

"It's okay," Meredith says quickly, keeping her voice calm. "She didn't touch me."

He releases Viv and Meredith can see white finger marks on the little girl's leg where he was holding her. Mark's face is white, too, he grips the back of his own neck, seemingly trying to get control. Vivian hasn't moved, and she's hasn't resumed crying, though her small body is still twitching with hiccupy breaths.

Meredith looks down at the little swollen toes. "I can check out her foot," she offers.

Mark nods, hauling Viv all the way into his lap. "Hold still and let Meredith look," he instructs her firmly, holding her in something between a hug and a full body bind.

Viv rubs her eyes with two balled up fists but she lets Meredith take her little foot in her hand to examine it.

Meredith is as gentle as possible, but Vivian still yelps when she manipulates her toes.

"I'm sorry, Viv." Meredith glances up at Mark, nodding slightly toward Viv's second toe, which suggests a clean break. It's already swelling and she can see blood under the nail. The others seem okay. "Do you have …"

Mark directs her to his medical bag and she easily finds the supplies she needs. Vivian seems too worn out to protest as Meredith carefully pads the space between them and then tapes the injured toe to the uninjured one next to it.

"Your toes are going to be buddies and the strong one is going to help the hurt one get better. See?" Meredith smiles at Viv, who just blinks in response.

Mark thanks her as she piles a few pillow to elevate Viv's foot and then rests the ice on her toes.

"It's cold," Vivian says in her gravelly little voice that had been startling at first; now it just seems a part of her.

"You don't have to keep it on for too long," Meredith assures her, "but the cold will help your toe get better."

"You know what, I think I broke the same toe when I was a kid." Mark smiles down at Viv, his tone much more congenial now.

She glances up at him. "You did?"

"Yeah, actually I was kicking a ball around with …" His voice trails off, and he glances at Viv. "With a friend," he says, and Meredith can't help but smile a little bit and the thought of a small Mark and Derek playing together. She knows they go way back but Viv is so tiny next to her father; imagining both Mark and Derek at her size is difficult. "And actually … _he_ was the one who broke my toe. By accident," he adds.

Viv takes in the story without speaking.

"So I think that means you have Sloan toes," he tells Viv, wiping some of the moisture off her cheeks with his thumbs.

She still doesn't say anything, but when Mark moves his hand away from her face she grips it with her little one and holds on.

For a moment they're both quiet, and then Mark seems to remember that Meredith is there. "I'm so sorry," he says quickly, "you were trying to leave before …"

"No, it's fine," Meredith says. "I should probably go now, though." She glances toward the door, then back at Mark and Vivian, who's settled limply on his lap, hair that's come loose from her braids damp and wild around her flushed face.

"Thank you so much for everything today," Mark says, his voice equal parts exhausted and grateful. "Really."

"You don't have to – "

"Say thank you to Meredith," he prompts Viv.

His daughter ignores him.

"Suit yourself," Mark says, "but Meredith isn't going to want to hang out with you anymore if you're not polite."

Viv's gaze flickers toward Meredith, who smiles encouragingly at her, trying not to let her expression reflect either her discomfort with Mark's words or her awareness of the hurt look on Vivian's face.

"Thank you," Viv mumbles without making eye contact.

"Anytime," Meredith says warmly, "thank you for coming with us today, Viv, and making Zola so happy. Keep those buddies elevated," she adds, pointing to Viv's injured foot.

Vivian doesn't respond; she's already turned back to her father, her husky little voice audible as Meredith pulls open the heavy front door: " _Now_ can I see Mommy?"

…

Derek opens the door while she's fumbling with her key. "You were there a while." He leans in for a kiss. "Everything okay?"

"Addison's home," Meredith says.

"Ah." Derek nods. "You saw her?"

"Just for a second." Meredith pauses, anticipating his next question. "I don't know how she is, she was … kind of far away."

"And Vivian?"

"She broke a toe having a tantrum." It's the only word Meredith could think of, though she's not sure it's a fair description.

Overall she's not sure _fair_ can describe much of what's happening in Viv's life.

Derek's eyes widen. "Is she all right?"

"Yeah. I guess." Meredith pauses. "Maybe not. I don't know."

They've made their way into the living room as they talked and Meredith stops to lean against her husband. "I'm exhausted."

His fingers work their way soothingly along her scalp.

"I smell like chlorine," she admits.

"Take a shower," he suggests. "There's a clean baby in our bed … "

"Why did we even get the extra room?" Meredith can't bring herself to pretend to mind. Warm, sleepy little Zola is the best soporific around.

She pauses outside the bedroom door. "She's a good kid," Meredith says, not sure why she feels … is it defensive? Protective? Derek just nods in response.

"I mean, I think she's confused and freaked out. With good reason. But she's a good kid. She was very sweet with Zola in the pool." Meredith pauses, smiling. "When we were walking home, Zo asked if she could come live with us."

"Vivian?" Derek raises an eyebrow.

Meredith nods.

"You know what this means …"

"What?"

"We need another girl."

"Before this one is born?" She grins at him, resting a hand on her belly. "I think that's called getting ahead of ourselves."

"Hey, it's not my fault if Zola wants a sister."

"Let's see how much she likes her little brother first," Meredith says, "when it turns out he's not going to big enough to play with her for a while."

The warm shower feels nice, and rinsing the chlorine from her hair feels nicer. She fashions a makeshift turban and pulls on a clean oversized t-shirt before she sits on the side of the bed. Zola is flat on her back breathing the way she always does in sleep: both peacefully and noisily. At this stage of sleep she's out like a light; Meredith and Derek speak in hushed tones even knowing speaking at normal volume probably wouldn't wake her.

"How did you leave things with Mark?"

Meredith is a little confused. "How do you mean?"

"Just … if Addison's been discharged, I guess we won't be seeing them at MCH."

"And your mom's coming home tomorrow. That's still the plan, right?"

"Right," he says.

"Then I guess I don't know," she admits. Then she glances up, smiling a little. "Derek … did you break Mark's toe when you were kids?"

" _Mark_ broke Mark's toe when we were kids. He has the toe version of a glass jaw." Derek pauses. "I guess Vivian inherited his feet."

"That's what Mark said."

"And then Addison broke _my_ toe, when we were moving … what, twenty years ago? She dropped a p-chem textbook on my foot … a huge one. The same toe, in fact. It's still a little crooked. So I guess what goes around comes around."

"I guess so." Meredith rubs at her wet hair with one hand. "I, uh, I think Mark is having a hard time with her."

"With Addison?"

"I meant Viv, but maybe with both. I don't know." When she thinks about it, Meredith supposes she can see the similarities, loving them both and frustrated with how to protect them.

She thinks about the way Addison looked standing at the top of the stairs and looking down, partly in shadow, but concern still evident on her face. She had one hand on the banister but the other wasn't –

Of course Meredith couldn't see the other one.

It must have been resting on her pregnant belly. The same way Meredith does. The way she is right now, with her free hand.

"Mer – what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says quickly.

"Okay." He leans over and kisses her. "I'm going to get some water from the fridge. Want anything?"

She shakes her head.

 _Breathe. Slow, deep breaths._

It's not that hard. It's not rocket science.

So why can't she do it?

…

Derek pauses in the hallway to take a swig of water. Thankfully they packed the refrigerator with plastic bottles; it's not the taste that's the issue – he hasn't been away long enough to forget that New York City has _the best water in the world._ It's the heat, the searing heat that threatens to creep into even the most air-conditioned apartment.

This heat, the humidity – he doesn't miss New York in high summer, there's no question about it.

So the bottled water, icy cold, is their best weapon. He takes one more sip before he opens the bedroom door.

He's not even half a step into the bedroom before he realizes something's wrong … and curses himself for leaving.

"Mer?"

He jogs to her side.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," she says again, but her breath is coming quickly. "I'm okay."

He sits down next to her, recognizing the sound and pattern of her panicky breaths.

"You're okay," he agrees soothingly, "Nancy looked at you, and at the baby, and you're both perfect. Remember?"

He strokes her hair.

"For now," she whispers, her voice catching.

"Now is what matters. Everything is okay now. Just try to take slow – "

"Anything can happen," she pants. "Addison was nineteen weeks. _Nineteen_."

"Addison has nothing to do with this," Derek reminds her calmly. "That was a completely different situation. I need you to focus on our situation, okay? On our baby. Take a nice, slow breath for me."

"I can't-"

"Yes you can," he says, keeping his voice soothing even though seeing her panicking is making him want to panic – even though he's afraid for her and the baby right now.

Not because something is wrong with her pregnancy.

Not because _anything can happen._

But because right here, right now, in the present moment, her eyes are wide and frightened, ringed with exhaustion.

Right here, right now, she needs him.

"Mer … it's okay, listen to me … I need you to breathe, nice and slow. You're breathing for the baby too, remember? So breathe."

"I … trying …"

"I know you are. It's okay." He shushes her with a calm he doesn't actually feel watching her start to spiral. "You're doing great. Just take some nice, slow breaths."

He's holding her against him carefully now, keeping her vertical so he doesn't make her feel crushed, and rubbing her back.

He knows she's fine.

He _knows._

He just needs her to know, and he tries his best to transmit it with touch.

But her breath still sounds short.

"Meredith," he says softly.

"I'm _trying_ ," she barks, half gasp, and then suddenly Zola's worried little face suddenly appears in his line of vision, her hand stretching out toward her mother.

She's awake.

"Mommy?"

Derek frees one hand from Meredith carefully and reaches for his daughter.

"Mommy's fine, sweetie, and so are you. We're playing a game, you want to come play?"

Zola nods and he lifts her onto his lap, keeping one arm wrapped securely, but not too tightly, around Meredith.

"Put your hand on the baby, Zozo, and you can play too, okay? Listen to Daddy and breathe just like I am," and he models a nice long, slow breath, smiling at Zola.

Then he does it again.

"Can you do that too? Breathe like Daddy's breathing?"

Zola nods with a smile, inhaling and exhaling deeply, stopping occasionally to beam at her own breaths.

As he expected – as he hoped – Zola's small hand on Meredith's belly, and her warm, sweet little presence, does the trick.

It's not too many breaths later that Meredith is calm again, just her forehead slumped against him now, stroking Zola's hair with her other hand.

Zola lifts her hand from Meredith's belly and smiles at both her parents. "Baby sleeping now," she says, pointing.

"That's right, you're such a good big sister."

It feels right to be together, all three of them, so they don't attempt to bring Zola back to her own bed, just tuck her back into theirs. She falls back to sleep almost immediately and Meredith turns to him with tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Mer … please, you don't need to be sorry, you just need to be … not-freaked-out."

"That one's harder. So can we start with sorry?"

"Yeah. We can start with sorry, if that's what you want." Gently, he pulls her down against him. "I'm sorry too."

His own eyes don't close until her breaths have become even and regular and then, holding her close, Zola cuddled against his side, one of his hands resting on the swell of his wife's belly where his son is growing … then, and only then, he joins the people he loves most in sleep.

They just have to be _not freaked out._

How hard can that be?

...

Zola wakes Derek up with a fistful of plasticky grapes from her grocery set and a loud stage whisper: "I'm hungry!"

"Not hungry enough to eat those, I hope." He pulls her in for a cuddle. "Did you get up and play by yourself?" He and Meredith must have been sleeping more deeply than usual.

"Yeah." Zola leans against him. "Let's go get bagels," she suggests happily.

"My little New Yorker. You sound like a real native now." Derek glances over at Meredith, who's still sleeping, most of the way on her back with a hand resting on the slight swell of her belly.

"Come with me, Zozo. Let's let Mommy sleep a little more." He scoops his daughter up and carries her into the kitchen, then sets her on the counter. "We'll get bagels later on. Let's start with something we can make here. How about … waffles?"

He throws it out there strategically – knowing that there's no waffle iron … and that Zola never accepts a first offer on principle.

"No," she says immediately.

"Cereal, then."

"Okay!"

They end up at the kitchen table companionably across from each other while Zola does a decently efficient job of wielding her spoon. He watches her for a moment, finding it hard to believe they used to feed her from a bottle.

And hard to believe they're going to be doing it all over again soon.

He keeps up a chatty conversation with his daughter – they've been doing it for far longer than she's been responding, but it's so much fun now that Zola is a participant, even when her answers aren't strictly logical.

They discuss Carolyn's impending arrival.

"Grammy's coming," Zola agrees, digging in her milk for the last stray corn puffs, splashing a little on the table. "Uh-oh."

"That's okay, we'll clean it up." Derek fetches one of the striped dishtowels that was waiting for them in the apartment. "Grammy's coming today."

"She sleeps in _my_ room?"

Derek smiles. Zola has spent very little time in the junior bedroom off the hallway, but not so little that she doesn't seem to feel a strong sense of possession.

"No, sweetie, Grammy has her own room – the bigger one, where Aunt Lizzie was going to sleep, remember?"

Zola considers this. "Okay."

"I'm so glad you approve," Derek teases, sweeping her up for a kiss when she finishes her cereal.

"Mommy's sleeping?"

"Yeah, Mommy's sleeping."

"Baby's sleeping too?"

"Yes, your baby brother is sleeping too." He smiles at Zola. "Let's let them sleep a little longer, okay?"

He distracts Zola with a puzzle at the kitchen table while he cleans up and exchanges logistical texts with his sisters about his mother's release from the hospital.

Then, his chores finished, he settles down in the living room to play with his daughter.

…

An hour and a half passes quickly with Zola tiring herself out running back and forth across the living room with her pink plastic grocery cart. She's sleepy and calm by the time Meredith wakes up, groggily apologetic – but he shuts that down quickly.

He hates leaving them – but getting his mother discharged is going to be a hurry up and wait type of ordeal and they're certainly not going to bring Zola to the hospital.

"I can stay here. My sisters can just – "

"Derek, we're _fine._ " Meredith maintains her protests as she sees him out the door in her robe, sipping coffee with one hand. Zola's already halfway ready for a nap, so he doesn't feel that bad about leaving … he'll be back soon.

He runs straight into Kathleen in the lobby.

"Zola loves the grocery cart," he tells her immediately. "I mean, it's not strictly for groceries – and I think she'd put us in it if we could fit – but it's a hit."

"I'm so glad." His sister pauses, then rests a hand on his arm. "Derek, I want to ask you before she … look, do you think Nancy seems especially … anxious?"

"Nancy always seems anxious," he says mildly, sidestepping the question.

Which is not a great strategy when the asker is a shrink.

"Derek." She narrows her eyes. "You know what I mean."

"It's a stressful time." He glances around the hospital lobby, referring silently to their mother's hospitalization.

"Derek –"

"Kath. Let's go upstairs; Mom's waiting."

"You go," she suggests. "I'll wait down here for Nancy."

He rides up in the elevator alone; Liz is with their mother when he pushes open the door to the pink room that's become familiar.

"Good morning, dear." His mother is sitting up in the high-backed patient chair, very much herself in the kind of sensible slacks and blouse she always liked for travel. It seems Liz has fixed her hair, and while her eyes look a little tired there's good color in her face.

"You look great, Mom," he says and means it.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, son, I've always said."

Liz makes a face, but it's half-hearted and turns into a smile halfway through. "Is Kathy with you?"

"She's in the lobby."

"Do you mind if I go get some coffee?"

"Of course not." Derek smiles at his sister.

When it's just the two of them, he sits down on the side of the empty hospital bed across from his mother. "Zola is excited for you to come stay with us," he tells her.

"I wasn't sure if she'd remember me."

"Come on … you're pretty memorable, Mom," Derek chides her gently.

"Well, I'm excited to see her to," his mother says. "I didn't know an old woman like me would get the joy of grandbabies again … little ones."

It's not meant to be guilt-inducing, he doesn't think. But it's a reminder that they've had Zola a lot longer than his mother has. It's not that he didn't want to share. It's more that leaving the east coast, when he did, felt permanent. A final severing.

Except that now they're back.

"I don't mean it badly, dear," his mother says, studying his face. "Life is full of surprises as you get older. You don't even need to be as old as I am."

"You're not old," he says automatically.

"Neither are you … but you've had some surprises on this trip, haven't you?"

He nods slowly. No need to get more specific than that; they both know what she means.

"You know, I think it's a credit to you, honey. Not all men would be so … welcoming."

"Welcoming?"

"To Vivian." Carolyn pauses. "I think it's lovely that Meredith has taken such an interest. Really heartwarming. And that you support it."

"You mean instead of just writing her off because she's the product of my ex-wife's affair?" Derek raises an eyebrow. "When she's an innocent kid? Is that really what you think of me?"

"No, of course not, Derek," his mother says, her expression placating. "It's a complicated situation, that's all."

 _A complicated situation._

Derek thinks about the sad-eyed little girl who plays patiently with Zola, who Meredith says came alive in the water. He thinks about the fear in Zola's eyes for the single moment she woke in the middle of her parents' panic and had to worry about her mother. But it was just one second.

Just one.

"Maybe it's not complicated," Derek says, smiling briefly at his mother. "Sometimes … I think it's actually pretty simple."

* * *

 _To be continued. (Of course.) I love writing this story, and I usually have half a chapter going in my head when I'm walking around or running errands or ... fine, or when I'm working. So expect more soon. Sooner if you review. (I know, I know, but I can't help that I'm motivated by your reviews!) Thank you again!_


	28. our own pretty ways

**A/N: Two updates in 24 hours ... haven't done that in a while. Thank you for being such awesome readers and I hope you enjoy this update.**

* * *

 _our own pretty ways_  
...

* * *

 _Life ... is full of surprises as you get older._ That's what his mother said.

Derek can't disagree. He's been surprised many times in his adult life, maybe most powerfully when he drove across the country in a state of shock, opened the door of a bar, and walked into the rest of his life.

Or when he held a sick baby in his arms and knew in that instant that she was meant to be theirs.

And he's surprised now.

He's surprised that he and his wife are arguing on the phone in quiet voices so that neither their child (on Meredith's end of the line) nor his mother (on his end) will hear … and that the argument is about his wife's insistence that she plans to reach out to his _ex_ wife.

"Mer … I'm bringing my mom there in a few hours. Why don't you and Zola just rest, and –"

"Zola's already napped, Derek. She's in a great mood. A going-out-of-the-house mood. And she wants to see Vivian."

"The three of them probably want to spend time together," Derek points out mildly, "since Addison just got home."

"Actually … I talked to Mark," Meredith says. "And he was interested. I said we could go to lunch, you know, to get Viv out of the house."

"What about Amy?"

"What about her?"

"I thought she was their … live-in aunt," he says, for lack of a better term. "Can't she take Vivian out?"

"I don't know where Amy is," Meredith says. "But I know that we're here with nothing on our schedule and Zola likes playing with Viv and there's no reason _not_ to do it."

"No reason," Derek repeats, the words heavy in the air.

Meredith pauses. "You're not going to blame a five-year-old for last night, are you?"

"Of course not," he says. "I'm not talking about _blame_. Just stress. The avoidance of it, in particular."

"Derek …" She pauses, forming the words she wants. "I'm going to be more _stressed_ thinking about that little girl stuck in that big house while everything …"

Her voice trails off.

Derek is quiet for a moment. "I love that you care so much," he says softly.

"But … you also kind of hate it?"

"I love you," he says, and she lets him sidestep the question, just putting Zola on the phone to say hi.

He puts his cell on speaker for his mother's benefit so they can both enjoy Zola giggling into the phone; it's as adorable as it always is and he tries to ignore the gnawing anxiety in his stomach.

…

"Mommy." Zola places the plastic ear of corn she's been pretending to shuck back in her pink grocery cart and rests an arm on her mother's shoulder.

Meredith, who has been seated on the floor alternately playing with Zola and revisiting her phone call with Derek, smiles at her daughter.

"Yes, Zo?"

"Mommy … you remember yesterday?" Zola's little face looks pensive.

Meredith is flooded with guilt. Of course Zola's been traumatized by witnessing some of her panic attack yesterday, there's no question. She knew it. It's probably all she's been thinking about.

"I do remember yesterday, sweetie," Meredith says carefully. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yeah." Zola climbs onto her lap and leans against her as Meredith tries to provide enough security and warmth to get them through this. "You remember the penguins?"

"The penguins?"

"At the zoo," Zola says as if Meredith is missing something very obvious. "Yesterday. The _penguins._ "

"At the zoo," Meredith repeats slowly. "Of course. I remember the penguins."

What she didn't remember, until now, was that Zola has reached the stage of interest in time … coupled with a complete misunderstanding of it. It's adorable, and confusing, and Meredith forgot that _yesterday_ to Zola can mean anything from _five minutes ago_ to _the Paleolithic era._

Their trip to the zoo was a few months ago, on a pleasant spring day.

"The penguins were _so_ good," Zola recalls, smiling blissfully. "They walked like this, Mama, right?" She slides off Meredith's lap, claps her little arms to her sides and does a decent waddling impression of a penguin.

Meredith laughs, the rest of her guilt dissipating. "They sure did, Zozo."

"Can we go see the penguins today?"

"Not today, but soon," Meredith says, then shifts gears to avoid a protest. "Hey, Zo, remember you liked the giraffes too – they look like this, right?" And she stretches her neck while making a funny face.

Zola respond with laughter so uproarious that it suggests Meredith is the wittiest person in the world. "You're _so funny,_ Mommy, do it again!" Zola squeals, wheezing for breath, an expression of pure delight on her face.

Toddlers can really be _very_ good for one's self esteem.

…

Vivian opens the heavy door herself to let them in and then stands in the doorway looking a little shy – and noticeably neater than Meredith has seen her look. There's a braid on either side of her head started and then pulled back with a clip, the rest of her hair hanging loose; brushed, it looks glossy instead of stringy.

"Hi," she says.

"Vivi's house," Zola beams as her friend steps back to let them in.

Mark is standing at the vast bookshelves against one of the walls, filling a large tote with some of the volumes he pulls down. He turns around to say hello.

"But Vivi … where are your toys?" Zola looks confused.

Meredith can't help smiling. There's a … gallery-ish quality to the large living room, somewhat abandoned and impersonal. There are no toys on the floor, or anywhere else that she can see.

"In the playroom. Want to see?" Viv glances at her father quickly for approval, and he nods.

"Stay on this floor," Mark instructs his daughter; she leaves with an enthusiastic Zola trotting behind her.

"Meredith?"

Mark is holding out what looks like an old photograph. He sits down on the larger of the two couches, which is vast and velvety.

"I, uh, dug this out for Viv after we ran into Derek the first time and then I thought maybe you'd like to see it, or Zola, but I guess she might be too young."

Meredith sits down next to him to look at the picture he's holding and can't help an immediate flush of warmth.

It's a faded photograph of two little boys squinting into the sunlight, both holding onto the same big and apparently freshly caught fish. She can make out what looks like a lake in the background, and scrubby grass.

They appear to be about six years old, maybe seven. Derek's messy dark hair looks much the same as it still does in the morning before he tames it, and his small face is so innocent and sweet – but all boy, down to the visible smudges of dirt on his clothing and grass-stained knees – that she thinks she might cry.

Next to him, a little taller, the boy version of Mark is grinning broadly. Meredith sees Vivian in his heart-shaped face with its upturned nose and freckles, though he looks quite a bit more cheerful than Meredith has ever seen Viv. His dirty-blond hair is sticking straight up and, like Derek, he looks clearly, purely happy.

"This is great," she says honestly. "It's a great picture. Thank you for showing it to me."

"Yeah?" Mark glances at the photograph again. "That's Hamonasset park," he says. "Where we are, I mean. In Connecticut. We used to fish on the lake there with Derek's dad."

Meredith stares at this long-ago version of her husband, resting a hand automatically on the swell of her belly.

Will her son look like this?

Will Derek fish with him the way his father did?

Mark and Derek seem like brothers in the photo, so obviously close…

"My parents weren't much good," Mark says quietly. "Derek's family … they were my family, too, back then."

She's not sure what to say. She knows Mark and Derek were best friends from childhood – which made his staggering betrayal of years ago now even more shocking when she learned of it – but realizing that Mark must have lost his surrogate family along with Derek is a side she hasn't considered.

"You look like Vivian there," she says, changing the subject a little.

"Yeah?" Mark studies the picture. "Yeah, maybe. Not as cute though."

"I don't know, you were pretty cute." She smiles, then looks down at the picture again. "Derek, though … ." She shakes her head. "He might be the cutest one."

Mark smiles too then, which makes him look younger and almost like the boy in the picture. "You're biased," he teases her.

Zola wanders back into the room and climbs onto her mother's lap. "Look, Zozo." Meredith shows her the picture. "Recognize anyone?"

Zola points. "Daddy!" She smiles. She's seen other old pictures of Derek, and Meredith moves the picture closer to her when she beckons to avoid placing it in her sometimes rough little fingers.

"Daddy," she says again happily, "and a _fishie_."

Meredith smiles at her. "Daddy caught that fishie." She glances at Mark. "Did he?"

"With some help," Mark says, "but sure … why not."

"Who's that?" Zola points to the other little boy.

"That's me." Mark smiles at her look of confusion.

Zola looks from Mark to the blond boy in the picture. "No. He's too little," she says, pointing.

"I was little then," Mark agrees with her. "But so was your dad, right?" He points to the image of Derek. "We were just kids here."

"Yeah." Zola leans back against her mother, then looks at the picture again. "Where are you, Mommy?"

"I wasn't there, sweetie. I didn't know Daddy until we were grownups."

Meredith studies the idyllic looking scene. When she was that age … her life looked pretty different. Which is probably why Viv doesn't surprise her that much.

"Ohh." Zola plays with a strand of her mother's hair.

"Were you even born when that picture was taken?" Mark glances at Meredith. "You know what? Don't answer that. God, we're old."

She notices Viv is still standing a foot away. The buddy tape on her toes looks a little dingy already.

"Look, baby, remember I showed you this before." Mark draws Viv into his side. "That's Derek, Zola's dad, when we were around your age." He points.

Vivian studies the picture, not looking particularly impressed.

"And that's me," Mark reminds her, pointing at his younger self. "What do you think, slap some long hair on that kid, and it could be you, right?"

Vivian's mouth quirks a little, like she might smile. "No," she says, serious again. "You'd still be a boy."

"That's true. Plus, you're much prettier." Mark kisses the top of her head. "Hey, go grab your bag so you can get going."

But Viv lingers at his side, little fingers worrying the neck of his shirt.

Mark sets the picture on end table and takes her on his lap, speaking quietly to her. "It's okay, you're just going to go out with your friends and have some lunch. We talked about it, remember?"

Viv whispers something to her father too softly for Meredith to hear.

"I know, baby, but Mommy's resting. Hey – by the time you get back, you can see her."

Viv leans against him, not looking convinced.

"She wants you to finish reading to her when you get back. Remember, you put in the bookmark?" Mark rests his cheek against the top of his daughter's head for a moment. "We'll be here when you get back," he adds.

She considers this, and then climbs down from his lap. Mark looks relieved; he scoops a little canvas bag off the floor – it looks like a smaller version of his, with pink straps printed with little green whales and pink initials embroidered on the front: VSA, the S larger than the other two letters.

Viv pulls away when he tries to hand it to her. "Why do I have to carry a bag?"

"So you have everything you need when you're out," Mark says patiently. "See, Meredith is carrying a bag."

Meredith smiles, indicating the diaper bag she's wearing cross-body, which is probably large enough to contain both little girls.

She sees Viv's gaze go to Zola, and back to Meredith. She doesn't say anything, but her meaning isn't lost on Meredith.

"I can carry your bag, Viv," she offers.

"Forget it," Mark says immediately. "You're …" He gestures toward her midsection, then turns to his daughter. "Vivian. You're not a baby. You can carry your own stuff. You want a backpack instead? I think it's too hot for a backpack."

Viv doesn't respond, just takes the bag from Mark, slings it over her shoulder and then stomps toward the door.

"Viv … come back here and say goodbye." Mark sighs. Meredith sees him glance up the stairs as if he's willing Addison to help him handle their daughter.

Vivian pauses at the door. "Why?"

"Because if you leave when you're cranky then you're going to be sad later," he says.

Viv appears to consider this, then takes half a step toward her father; he covers the rest of the ground between them, picking her up for a squeeze and then kissing her on both cheeks. "Be good and listen to Meredith. And eat something, please."

She hangs on when he starts to set her on her feet, and when he tries to detach her wrists from his neck she wraps her legs around him too.

"Baby, come on. It's just for an hour," Mark coaxes her. "And you need to get out of the house."

Vivian looks torn. "But Mommy…"

"…is resting, remember, so you can't see her anyway, and I think she'll be really happy if you spend some times outside the house. And then you can see her when you get home, and you can read with her…"

Slowly, she unwraps her legs.

"That's my girl." Mark sets her on her feet and kisses the top of her head. He's still thanking Meredith profusely as the door closes behind them.

...

When it's clear his mother's discharge isn't imminent, Derek heads to the cafeteria to procure some food for the roomful of Shepherds. Kathleen tags along, ostensibly to help him carry his purchases back, but she rests a hand on his arm at the elevators, stopping their progress.

"Nancy is being weird," she says.

"I don't know what to tell you, Kath."

"I think you do." Kathleen folds her arms. "I think something is going on and you're not telling me."

"Kathleen-"

"You didn't tell me about Addison."

"That wasn't mine to tell."

"You're so _honorable,_ " she scoffs. "Derek, if something is going on with Nancy – "

"-then you should ask her yourself. Come on, let's go get food."

Nancy is sitting with their mother when they get back, one of her heels tapping sharply on the floor.

Kathleen raises her eyebrows at Derek, who ignores her.

Nancy checks her watch.

"Do you need to be somewhere, Nance?" Kathleen asks sweetly.

"No," Nancy says. "Why?"

"Just asking. You rescheduled your patients?"

"My partner's covering," Nancy says. "Why, are you pregnant again?"

"Very funny." Kathleen makes a face and for a moment everything feels normal.

"Mom, what about – "

Derek looks up at the new voices and sees his twin nieces come to a stop in the doorway, looking at their mother and then at each other.

"I thought no kids were allowed in the hospital," Kathleen frowns.

"She's practically discharged," Nancy snaps, "if you don't mind."

"I don't mind."

Kathleen stands up to kiss each of the girls in turn, then takes Joy's face in her hands and frowns. "What happened to you, sweetheart?"

"Errant tennis ball," Nancy says smoothly, not making eye contact with Derek.

"Is that why they're not at camp? Sarah, didn't you make it to the semi-finals?"

"What is this, the third degree?" Nancy motions for her daughter to join her and she does.

Kathleen looks from the twins to Nancy to Derek and back again.

"Nance," Kathleen says, "why don't the girls and I start taking some of Mom's stuff over to Derek's apartment?"

"There's no need for that. We'll all leave soon enough."

Carolyn is watching the conversation.

"Derek … why don't _you_ take the girls, and Mom's bags," Nancy says finally.

"Why –"

"Kath, would you just drop it? It's Derek's place," Nancy snaps.

"Girls," Carolyn says firmly. " _Children_ wouldn't have been the ones banned if I knew you were going to argue this much."

They both look chastened.

Derek can see the strain on Nancy's face; she's pale, even in makeup, and there are shadows under her eyes. "Nance, why don't you take the girls and Mom's stuff to the apartment." He hands her his keys, studiously ignoring Kathleen's glare, and a grateful Nancy takes him up on the offer.

…

"Where are we going?" Vivian is holding one of Meredith's hands and Zola the other.

"I thought you might have some ideas, actually, Viv, since this is your neighborhood. Is there somewhere around here you like to eat?"

The little girl pauses for a moment, then nods.

She leads Meredith and Zola around the corner to a small bistro with a striped awning and outdoor seating.

Almost everything she's eaten in New York has been delicious, but she's not sure she's ever going to adjust to eating al fresco on a sidewalk that's basically in a busy and none-too-appetizing street – so she's relieved when Vivian leads them indoors

"Mademoiselle Vivian!" The dapper-looking maître-d gives her name the French inflection as he fusses over her. "It's been too long. Look, you are even bigger now." He smiles warmly at Vivian. "And where is Maman today?"

"She's at work," Viv says with a quick glance at Meredith, her chin raised a little as if she's daring Meredith to correct her.

"Ah, of course, with the babies." He beams. "But you brought some new friends, yes? Come, we will sit down."

The maître'd hustles over one more time after they're seated at a cozy round table, says _shh_ , and passes heavy cream-colored paper and crayons to both girls, as if to suggest he doesn't plan to do it for all the children.

"Do you come here a lot?"

Viv is offering Zola the first pick of crayons, but she glances up at Meredith's question. "Yeah, we used to," she says.

Vivian doesn't even glance at her menu; Meredith picks hers up.

"What do you recommend?" She smiles at Viv.

"Um … my mom likes the snails," Viv says.

… and that's what you get for asking. Meredith is starving – she's eating for two or, based on her appetite, maybe eating for twelve. And she's just seen a succulent burger walk by on the arm of a startlingly beautiful waitress.

"I was thinking about a burger," Meredith says.

Viv shrugs. "Okay."

There's no children's menu – "we can make anything for the child's portion," the waiter assures her with a smile. "What does the little one like to eat?"

Zola looks up at the question. "Gummy bears," she says firmly.

Meredith blushes a little; Zola came home from the bodega with a little bag of them earlier in the week thanks to Derek and apparently it's made quite the impression.

"Ah, we're all out of those." He winks at Meredith. "I will find something."

Zola enjoys the bread, or at least enjoys ripping it in two, and then shunning the easier to eat insides and gnawing on the sturdy crust. Meredith smiles weakly.

Vivian's table manners are impressive for not-even-six years old, and an interesting contrast to her casual dress. The other little girls Meredith sees in the restaurant have sharply parted hair with big grosgrain bows and fussy little outfits. Viv is dressed casually in a green-and-white striped t-shirt and cotton shorts, but she holds her silverware perfectly in both hands, cuts only one bite at a time, and never speaks while she's chewing.

Vivian would probably be horrified by Meredith's regular lunch table at the hospital cafeteria.

She glances up and catches Meredith looking at her.

"Your hair looks pretty like that," Meredith says quickly, gesturing toward the intricate half-braids.

"My mom did it," she replies.

Meredith suspected as much.

"She did a really nice job."

Viv looks pensive. "Yeah, my mom is good at hair." She pauses. "My dad is _not._ "

With apologies for her gender normativity – and for the exceptions, like her husband – Meredith smiles: "Most boys aren't."

"He doesn't like my hair," Viv says casually, pausing for a sip of water. She pats her mouth politely with her folded napkin, replaces it in her lap and turns back to Meredith. "He says he's going to cut it all off in my sleep."

Meredith is chilled by her words. Chilled, and a little disbelieving. Yes, Mark is under stress, tremendous stress, and he seemed a little impatient with Vivian the night before … but she can't imagine him saying that, not to his five year old with a sleep disorder.

"Your dad said that to you?" Meredith makes the inquiry as gentle and casual as possible.

"No, to my mom." Viv is worrying the corner of the cloth placemat between two small fingers. "I heard him, in their room. I think he was mad 'cause I didn't want him to brush it."

Ah. Another thing she heard.

"Your house is pretty big," Meredith observes. "It seems like it would be kind of hard to hear people in another room."

Viv's cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't respond.

It's a particularly unfortunate thing to overhear, although her father blaming her mother for her illness can't have been good either.

"Viv," Meredith begins.

"Vivi, _look_!" Zola interrupts with a broad smile. "I drawed you, look!"

Meredith looks too. The drawing is in heavily wielded pink crayon and it bears less resemblance to Viv than to … well, a series of waxy erratic squiggles, but Viv smiles.

"It's _really_ good," she tells Zola, who beams.

There's no more time for one on one conversation – Zola chooses the next moment to tip her bread plate onto the ground, then bursts into tears at the loud sound.

The waitstaff are lovely about it, bringing Zola a little pastry to cheer her up – and one for Viv too – and Meredith signals for the check before they can do any more damage.

Still … she's fairly certain she and Zola won't be invited back to the restaurant.

…

Meredith keeps them out for another hour after lunch, walking them over to Fifth Avenue to stroll along the park, then dipping all the way into the park for ice cream.

It takes Mark a while to open the door when they finally make it back to the Sloans' townhouse, and he only opens it a crack.

"Sorry," he says; he looks exhausted.

"Daddy!" Viv hops from one foot to the other with more energy and volume than Meredith is used to seeing from her outside of the swimming pool. "We went to –"

"Lower your voice," Mark says sharply and Viv shrinks back, looking hurt.

He exhales, a guilty look crossing his face. "I'm sorry, baby, just … Mommy's resting and she needs to sleep right now. Use your indoor voice, okay?"

She nods.

"I'm sorry," Mark says, to Meredith this time, taking Viv's little bag from her and then resting a hand on her shoulder to urge her inside the house. "I'd invite you in, but …"

"Of course." Meredith lifts Zola to her hip and presses a finger gently to her pink rosebud of a mouth as she starts to speak. "Shh, we're being nice and quiet," she tells her daughter.

"Thank you so much, Meredith, really, you're a gem." Mark glances behind him nervously; the door is barely open a sliver. "Can I pay for lunch at least, or …"

"No, please." Meredith waves a hand. "It's our pleasure. Any time, really, let me know if I can – "

The door closes on her words.

A little confused, she carries Zola down the steps. She could set her down to walk but for some reason, she feels like keeping her close.

"Mama, look!" Zola squeals happily as they start to make their way down the sidewalk. Meredith follows her pointing finger to the large windows on the first floor of the Sloans' townhouse; Viv's little face is peering out between the parted curtains, watching them.

Zola waves with the enthusiasm of a passenger setting out across the Atlantic, and after a minute Viv waves back.

A shadow crosses the window.

Viv's face vanishes, and the curtains swing shut again.

* * *

 _To be continued. Rest assured, Meredith and Derek will be reunited in the next chapter. You know how to motivate to write faster if you're ready for an update ... review! It's the fuel for my update engine. Rockstar, every-chapter reviewers, you are the backbone of this site and I adore all of you. Thank you. Anyone and everyone else, I would love to hear what you think of the story too, especially if you've been reading for a while and haven't reviewed. Okay, enough of the r-word but ... please review? xoxo_


	29. at the speed of life

**A/N: Thank you so much** for the response to this story. It's flowing pretty fast right now; I'm enjoying writing it and I'm enjoying hearing your thoughts. So please keep it up ... and I hope you keep enjoying reading it.

* * *

 _at the speed of life  
…_

* * *

An uncomfortable anxiety clings to the air as she carries Zola down the sidewalk, away from the Sloans' townhouse.

"Down," Zola requests, patting her mother's cheek, but Meredith procrastinates for some reason, waiting until they're two blocks away to set her daughter on her feet. The more distance between them and the Sloans', the more the anxiety starts to dissipate. Hand in hand, she and Zola make their chatty way back home, and things start to feel more normal.

New York normal, anyway.

"We're going to get something nice for Grammy for when she gets to the apartment," Meredith tells her daughter as they walk along the humid sidewalk. "She was sick, remember, but now she feels all better. Can you help Mommy think of something nice? What do you think Grammy would like?"

Zola considers the question for a while. "Grammy would like a _pigeon_ ," she says finally, fervently.

Meredith smiles. "So pigeons are … great," she says, forcing her face to stay neutral as she lies through her teeth, "but I was thinking more like maybe cupcakes."

"Ooh, cupcakes!" Zola claps her hands, apparently forgetting her devotion to the filthy little birds hopping around the sidewalk grates. "Pink ones," she demands.

"Pink cupcakes, perfect."

The concierge sends them a little deeper into the airless grid of sidewalk than she would have preferred, and they're hot and sweaty by the time they get to the admittedly adorable bakery.

A rosy-cheeked woman in a chef's hat smiles at them. "Did you walk all the way here, in this humidity?"

"Yeah, from _Seattle,_ " Zola tells her, her eyes wide.

The baker laughs heartily. "Then I think you need a treat." She looks at Meredith. "Does she have allergies, Mom? No? Then may I?"

Meredith nods.

"What's your favorite color?"

"Pink, pink, _pink,_ " Zola replies without hesitation.

The baker smiles and then retrieves a pink cake pop covered in butterfly-shaped sprinkles. Zola's eyes widen even further. "For me?"

She nibbles it and then makes incomprehensible noises of ecstasy.

"Zozo," Meredith leans closer to her. "What do you say?"

Zola looks up and smiles with a mouthful of pink crumbs. " _Yummy_ ," she breathes, a few pink crumbs ending up in Meredith's hair.

The baker laughs again. "I'll take it."

They wait for their goods and Zola chooses that moment to turn to a woman standing in line and point to her impressively sized bump. "There's a baby in there?" Zola asks brightly.

Meredith's face flushes, thanking the heavens that the woman is, in fact, clearly pregnant, is small boned despite her apparently imminent delivery, and appears totally unfazed, just smiling down at Zola. "Yup, there is," she says, "even though I tried to evict her last week."

Meredith tries to apologize but the woman just waves a hand.

"Please, it's fine. Ugh, it's so humid out, right? It's disgusting. And I'm like … sweating for two."

Meredith gives her what she hopes is a sympathetic smile. What happened to all those stereotypes of hassled, busy New Yorkers who didn't want to talk? She's pretty sure she's talked to more strangers over their week in Manhattan than she does in a month in Seattle.

"I'm six days overdue," the woman continues. "But they won't induce until I'm at ten."

"There's a baby in _there_ too," Zola tells her new friend, pointing upwards at Meredith. "See?"

The heavily pregnant woman sighs. "I remember when _I_ had a cute little bump like that," she tells Meredith. "Just wait."

They chat for a few moments as they wait for their orders. Meredith is still getting used to the way pregnancy seems to make people want to … _talk_ to you. Maybe it has something to do with how much people walk in Manhattan, just seeing and staring at each other and making notes, drawing inferences.

"Zozo," Meredith says gently as they walk down the sidewalk – slowly, which makes the heat and humidity somewhat more bearable even though she's wielding a large white bakery box, "you can't ask people you don't know if there are babies in their tummies."

"Why?"

"Because, um … because it's not nice." Meredith smiles weakly. She reminds herself to ask Carolyn or one of Derek's sisters for advice here. Surely among the hundred or so nieces and nephews this has come up before.

"Babies _are_ nice," Zola corrects her firmly, and since Meredith doesn't have an answer to that, she just nods, shifts the large white bakery box on her hip and continues to lead Zola back to their temporary home.

…

Derek busies himself with his blackberry, hoping he's wearing a face serious enough to suggest he's doing work and not scrolling through pictures of Zola in last autumn's Halloween costume.

He's not trying to disengage, not really, it's just that his mother's hospital room has started to remind him uncomfortable of the Shepherds' house when his older sisters were teenagers and there was always some secret he had to keep, like when Kathleen woke him up crawling through the bathroom window after curfew or the time he walked in on Nancy with Patrick Hinkle's hand up her blouse. Someone was always keeping something from someone, or coloring in the facts of something, or telling a slightly altered version of something. It was altogether confusing … and a lot of work.

The photographs are helping to calm him – he smiles when he gets to the older ones, with the costumes Zola tried on but eschewed, like fire man (fire woman? Fire baby?), astronaut, and Tigger, which seemed appropriate at the time based on her level of bounciness. Zola is so small in the photographs, noticeably littler than she is now, even if Halloween seems like just yesterday. Next Halloween Zola will be bigger, and the Halloween after that … her little brother will be there too.

It goes fast. Isn't that what his mother always said? There's so little time when the children are small.

Nancy's already left with the twins to start getting the apartment ready, but she's on his mind. She and her kids. He's haunted by the brief memory he recovered in the twins' bedroom of a toddler Jesse, small and sweet. And young. Jesse was _so_ young … and he still is.

 _Where_ he is, Derek doesn't know. Nancy hasn't said anything. Amy hasn't been in touch.

His mother and Liz are speaking quietly now; Kathleen is going over the room like a military inspector to make sure nothing is forgotten.

"You'll come out to the house when you feel up to it," Liz is saying to his mother. "We'll get all the kids together. They all want to see you. They'll be jealous Joy and Sarah we're here."

"Don't tell them," Kathleen suggests.

 _Great. More secrets._

"Come now, it's not exactly a treat to see their grandmother in the hospital … at least I hope not."

"They miss you," Kathleen says simply, and then turns to her brother. "Has Meredith been alone with Zola all day? We can help her out, you know."

"They're surviving," he says, smiling briefly at his sister. He and Meredith have exchanged texts over the hours they've been separated, with none of the tension that characterized their last phone call, including a picture of Zola in a café he didn't recognize with some kind of pastry in her hand – and on her face – and the description _first – and probably last for a while – French restaurant experience._

He told her his mother was dressed in street clothes and ready to go, that she'd been signed out by her physicians and was waiting on – and finally cleared by – OT, and they chatted a bit about the gathering they could expect at their apartment.

"Derek," Kathleen says suddenly, "what happens when you go back to Seattle?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean … is it going to be another five years before you're back on the East Coast?"

"Kathleen." His mother frowns. "This isn't the time, dear."

"I'm not trying to fight with him, Mom, I'm just wondering. My kids want to meet Zola, they want to meet Meredith, they want to feel like Uncle Derek is part of this family and if he's not …"

"I'm part of this family," Derek says in a tone that's half defensive and half uncertain.

Liz shoots him a sympathetic look. Oldest sister, peacemaker, she's never been one to join the fray. He wonders if Zola will be this patient with her little sibling.

Little siblings, plural?

 _One thing at a time_ , he reminds himself.

"Kathy, leave him alone," Liz says. "It's not like you've been to Seattle to see him."

"Our family is here. The only thing in Seattle … is Derek."

"And _his_ family," Liz points out mildly.

"Kathy." His mother gestures toward the rolling table. "Would you pour me some water, dear?"

It's their cue to stop arguing, and they take it. It's hard to break a lifetime of training.

When Kathleen leaves in search of coffee, Liz sits down next to Derek. "Don't let Kath keep you from feeling … okay about being here," she says.

"I won't," he says, "and anyway … I have Nancy for that."

He's half joking, but they share a smile anyway, oldest sister and only baby brother.

"Derek," Liz says tentatively, "I'm … not doing Kathy's dirty work, I swear, but she thinks something weird is going on with Nancy."

"Then she should talk to Nancy."

"She has. Nancy told her to stop shrinking her."

"Well, maybe Kath should stop shrinking people without their consent."

"I don't disagree," Liz says carefully, "it's just that if something's wrong … if we knew, we could help, and …" Her voice trails off. "You're not going to say anything, are you."

Derek is silent.

"Do you at least know where Amy is?"

"Liz…"

"I'm worried about her," Liz says, and for a moment he's a medical student again, Liz a frantic junior attending with a missing prescription pad, a tearful Addison trying to mediate. _I'm worried about Amy,_ that was the popular phrase of that era. _Have you heard from Amy? Did you see Amy? How did Amy look to you? Do you think Amy's okay?_

"I do," he says. "I mean … I think Amy's okay, Liz, I think she's okay and we don't need to worry about where she is."

Liz shakes her head. "Stonewalling us. You were always the best secret-keeper when we were kids. But we're not kids anymore."

"I know," he says.

Liz's dark eyes are troubled.

"You used to appreciate it," he says lightly, hoping to release some of the tension, "when I was stonewalling Mom after you'd sneak out to meet Dougie Caldwell and I had to lock the windows again from the inside so she wouldn't find out."

Liz blushes a little. "I can't believe you remember his name."

"Of course I remember his name. He gave me his football jersey to keep me quiet." Derek pauses. "He was a nice guy."

Liz snorts. "He was sneaking around with half of my softball team. Thank goodness I developed decent taste later on." She pauses, and smiles a little. "I did learn a lot from him, though."

"Liz, please." Derek presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I could have lived without that, you know."

"Sorry." She grins at him, the mischief sparkling in her eyes making her look a lot like her sixteen year old self.

"What are you two buzzing about over there?" Carolyn asks from her perch.

"Nothing, Mom," they chorus in unison.

Time passes quickly … but some things don't change.

…

"Grammy's in my house," Zola recites happily as they make their way into the icy relief of the air-conditioned lobby. "Right?"

"That's right, Zozo. Well, I don't know if she's there yet. She and Daddy are going to come together."

"To _my_ house," Zola clarifies.

"To your house." Meredith hikes the large white pastry box a little higher. "Sweetie, can you press the – thank you," she says weakly, when Zola presses their floor, and several others.

"Pretty lights," she says, pressing another.

"No more," Meredith says firmly, trying to wedge her body between Zola and the elevator panel. Why didn't she bring a stroller? What was that Nancy said – that strollers were less transportation devices and more restraint systems?

She stumbles out of the elevator with relief when the doors open and hustles Zola down the hall, keeping up a chatty monologue with a lot more energy than its narrator. "We're almost back at the apartment now, and then we're going to wash our hands and maybe read a book before Grammy gets here, would you like that?"

"Two books," Zola says immediately.

"If we have time, we can read two. We can even read … _three._ "

Zola responds as if she's just won a large cash prize and Meredith smiles at her. She knows her daughter won't be this small and sweet forever, this funny and cuddly and easy to please, but for now … for now she is.

And she loves it.

They hear voices inside the apartment as Meredith fumbles for her keys.

"Daddy's home!" Zola squeals, and thumps eagerly on the door with two flat little palms.

"Hang on, sweetie, just give me a second to – "

And then the door opens and Meredith has to grab Zola's arm to keep her falling into the apartment, and then swivel to keep the white bakery box from sliding out of her grasp.

"Sorry!"

It's not Derek at all.

It's a teenaged girl Meredith's never seen before. Briefly, she wonders if she's in the right apartment – did they get off on the wrong floor by mistake?

But then the girl squeals and drops down to her haunches. "Zola! Hi! Oh my god … you're so cute, like even cuter than your pictures."

Meredith is still standing just over the threshold, half of her in the hallway.

"Sarah, let them come inside before you start the welcome wagon," Nancy chides, striding up to join them. "Sorry, Meredith. My children are … informal, to say the least. We didn't mean to startle you. Derek sent us ahead to bring some of Mom's things over and get ready for her." She pauses her speedy series of sentences. "I hope you don't mind," she adds.

"Not at all."

Nancy relieves her of the bakery box and Sarah, who is nearing her mother in height on coltish legs, opens the lid eagerly. "Ooh, cupcakes!"

"Yeah, cupcakes!" Zola joins the fray, clapping her hands. "Mommy, I can have one?"

"Not yet, Zozo, we'll have them later, when Grammy gets here."

She's sort of hoping Zola will forget about the cupcakes by then – between the unexpected pastry at lunch and the cake pop at the bakery, today's ratio of vegetable to sugar is already at an all time low.

Nancy smiles down at Zola. "I hope we didn't startle you too much. We're _so_ happy to see you, Zola, do you remember Aunt Nancy?"

"Yes," Zola says thoughtfully, then returns to her favorite subject. "Pink cupcakes!"

"Well, that's the best greeting I could imagine." Nancy smiles, then rests a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Meredith, where are my manners … I guess it already seems like you've been one of us for so long that you know everyone. But it's been a few years and the last time was ... " Her voice trails off. "Well. This is Sarah, one of my two youngest," Nancy smiles fondly at the girl. "And Joy is around here somewhere …"

"I'm right here." Another teenager pops out from around the corner, holding a deflated balloon in one hand.

"She's right here," Nancy echoes. "Girls, this ... is your aunt Meredith."

 _Aunt Meredith._ She hasn't heard that particular one before.

And the other teenager is Joy. She looks quite a bit like her sister, tall with long dark hair and a teenaged version of Nancy's angular face, although hers is bruised.

Of course. The twins. No wonder she didn't recognize them - she would have met them at Clara's wedding but all her memory can recall is a sea of dark-haired Shepherd cousins. They would probably have looked much different a few years ago. Surreptitiously Meredith scopes them out – they're tall, athletic looking girls now, so she shouldn't be surprised that one of them – Sarah, she's pretty sure? Was capable of slamming Derek with her tennis racket.

"We're not identical," Joy says, misreading her gaze and sounding resigned.

"Yeah, Joy's the one with the shiner." Sarah smirks and Joy sticks her tongue out at her, which seems charmingly … quaint.

"Sarah," Nancy says sharply.

"What? It's not like it's invisible."

"Mom…" Joy looks annoyed.

"Honey, it's practically healed already. Don't worry about it," Nancy reassures Joy, reaching out to smooth her hair and pull some of it forward to cover the bruise.

It doesn't exactly look healed, but…

"We'll just take the cupcakes to the kitchen. Girls?" Nancy imbues the single word with meaning and both twins follow her into the kitchen.

"Two more cousins, Zozo," Meredith smiles down at her daughter. "You're just racking them up, aren't you."

Zola smiles amiably. "Cupcake now?"

"Not a chance." Meredith scoops her up before she can protest too loudly and takes her into the powder room off the hall to wash her hands. She can't help but hear the girls talking to Nancy in the kitchen through the shared wall, their voices rising and falling, but only catches snippets of the conversation.

 _But why can't-_

 _I told you –_

 _It's not like we-_

 _But he said –_

The girls both look guilty when they emerge from the kitchen, but there's not much time for awkwardness because the moment Meredith sets a clean-handed Zola on her feet she races into the living room and then screams so loudly Meredith is surprised the glass windows don't shatter.

"Zola!" She chases after her. "What's wrong, sweetie?"

"My toys!" Zola wails. "My toys are _gone_."

Her panicked voice would be funny except for the seriousness with which she's taking their absence.

"They're just put away, sweetie. Someone came to help us clean while we were out, so that it would be nice and neat for Grammy."

"I need them!"

"We don't want Grammy to trip over a lot of little things on the floor, Zozo, so we're just going to read a book now and play with some things that won't get in the way."

Zola shrieks at a decibel that suggests she's not too concerned with her grandmother's ability to navigate the apartment.

"It's okay, Zola, look!" Sarah has joined the fray, squatting down and upending the overflowing toy basket. Plastic food goes everywhere, skidding along the hardwood floor. A vividly pink plastic grapefruit slice ends up at Meredith's feet, a slab of rare steak at Nancy's.

"Sarah," Nancy sighs. " _Why_ would you –"

"My _toys,_ " Zola beams, relief stopping her tears instantly. "You _found_ them." She grabs an armload of plastic vegetables, then drops them and flings her arms around her teenaged cousin's neck.

"I guess that's why," Nancy says. "Well, as long as she's happy…"

They manage to negotiate a specific area for the plastic food; Zola throws her mother a few dark looks but she's not immune to her new cousin's doting attention, which seems to soothe her resentment at having her play area curtailed.

"Chloe," she says happily, patting Sarah's cheek.

"I wish," Sarah says. "She's much prettier, _and_ she can drive."

"You can drive when you're seventeen, and you're beautiful too," Nancy says, frowning at her. "Which doesn't matter, because –"

"I know, I know, because it's much more important to be smart and kind and whatever."

Sarah sounds distinctly unconvinced, and turns back to her cousin, taking her little hands in her own. "Hey Zola, can you say Sarah? Sarah?"

But _Sarah_ is a hard name, with its rolling vowels and lack of hard consonants in the middle. "You can call me Sassy," the teenager offers. "That's what Jess used to call me when he was …" Her voice trails off and she glances nervously at her mother.

"That's a great idea," Nancy says firmly. "It's much easier, what do you think, Zola? Didn't cousin Sassy have a good idea?"

Zola nods; Meredith isn't sure that she has much of an idea of what's going on, but she perceives that she's part of the conversation and appreciates it.

"And you were Jo Jo," Sarah says slowly, turning to her sister, who's been doing something on her pink phone.

"It's true." Nancy smiles. "Sassy and Jo Jo. For a while there, my girls sounded like a country and western duo. I haven't heard those names in a while."

"That's because we were the youngest. Until now, I mean." Joy pockets her phone and kneels down next to her sister and cousin. "Can I play too?"

"Yes," Zola says benevolently. "Okay, play store."

She watches the girls sort plastic food items – using a system only Zola understands, where hot dogs are matched with mangoes and cucumbers with chocolate milk. The older girls seem entranced with their little cousin … which is good because it lets Meredith help set up for the welcome party, and keeps all the children occupied.

"It seems like the twins were just Zola's age a minute ago." Nancy is watching them, shaking her head.

"They were so excited. They've been the youngest for a long time, longer than any of the other grandchildren."

"They're thirteen?" Meredith looks at Derek's nieces.

"Next month," Nancy says. "They're tall. Which is, you know, good now, but less good when they're two and throwing a fit in Gristede's and everyone glares at you like you're a terrible mother because they look more like four…."

Nancy is smiling at the memory, her eyes warm, when her phone buzzes and the smile drops off her face. "Excuse me," she says to Meredith and then disappears into the kitchen to take the call.

…

"Oh my, it sounds like a party in there," Carolyn jokes as they stand in the hallway outside Derek and Meredith's temporary apartment . Then she looks at her son. "Derek," she says warningly. "You didn't."

He lifts his hands. "Blame your daughters. You know they never let me veto anything."

She pats his cheek. "You got to name the puppy, didn't you?"

"In 1972? Yes. Is that really still part of the equation?"

"Derek … you named him Captain Kangaroo," she reminds him. "Your sisters had to call out that name when they walked him, and heaven forbid a young man was nearby to hear them …."

"Fair enough." He smiles and turns his key. "Ready?"

"Ready."

At least no one shouts _surprise,_ because he'd be annoyed if they did – their mother did just come out of the hospital, even if she seems remarkably back to her old self.

"Grammy!" Zola's little feet pound down the hallway first, followed by her two older cousins. "Grammy, we have _pink cupcakes_!"

"You look great, Grammy," Sarah says, and Joy nods.

"That's because I'm seeing my girls, together." Carolyn embraces the twins, then reaches toward Zola. "That's the best medicine."

" _No_ ," Nancy says quickly, "no lifting, Mom, you know that. Sarah, honey…"

Nancy's daughter obligingly scoops up Zola and leans her toward their grandmother for a kiss.

Joy and Nancy lead Carolyn into the living room while Sarah brings Zola with her – the cousins seem to have bonded – to fetch Grammy a glass of water from the kitchen. Derek takes the opportunity to pull Meredith aside.

"Still mad at me?" Derek asks.

"Trick question." Meredith smiles at him. "I wasn't mad at you in the first place."

"I knew I shouldn't have married someone who can outsmart me," he teases her.

"Didn't you tell me just the opposite? That you like how I can keep you in line?"

"Maybe." He pulls her in for a kiss, feeling the anxiety from this morning melt away as she leans against him. For a moment they just hold each other. "How was today?"

"It was good," she says.

"Zola enjoyed her escargot?"

Meredith grins at him.

"Viv is great with her. So patient. I think she's dying to be a big sister."

There's a pause while they both digest the unfortunate phrasing.

"Did you see Addison?"

Meredith shakes her head. "She was resting upstairs when we picked Vivian up, and … ." She pauses. "I didn't see her," she says finally.

"But she's home."

"Yeah." Meredith leans against him once more and he breathes her in gratefully. "She's home."

The moment or two alone are all they get; Zola bolts out of the kitchen gleefully holding a pink sippy cup her cousin has apparently filled for her and makes a beeline for Derek, climbing into his arms like she hasn't seen him in months. He's definitely not going to complain about that.

It's a pleasant hour of watching Zola play with her cousins and enjoying Carolyn's excellent recovery before Liz and Kathleen, who've been finalizing paperwork, show up to join the celebration.

"Where's Amy?" Kathleen looks around as soon as she enters the apartment.

Derek notices that Nancy has busied herself with the elaborate tea party Zola is currently hosting for Sarah and Joy.

"Probably with Mark and Addison," Liz says. She glances to Derek. "Right?"

He shrugs.

"She should be here," Kathleen says.

"It's a small apartment, Kath. Amy will see Mom soon."

"If Nancy's not complaining, _you_ don't need to be," Liz chides her sister gently. "Let's stay focused on the celebration, okay? Starting with …" She pulls out a large bottle.

"Pink champagne?" Joy's eyes widen.

"Non alcoholic." Meredith smiles at her expression. "I checked. Multiple times."

They pour out bubbly glasses, laughing at the froth, for everyone – even Zola, who gets hers in a sippy cup with a grinning elephant on it. Joy twirls her littlest cousin around she shrieks with glee.

"Mom's home." Nancy smiles. "And she couldn't be doing any better. Which means … everything is just like it should be. Right?"

Her voice sounds high and thin, a little forced.

"Right," Derek says, though he can't help glancing at his nieces. Nancy is biting her bottom lip and studying her phone, and Joy is standing very close to Sarah now, close enough to whisper something to her that he can't hear.

"I'll drink to that," Liz says heartily.

And they do.

There are pink cupcakes for everyone and plump strawberries Liz picked up on the way over. Carolyn begs off taking a rest, agreeing only to sitting on the couch in the living room and sipping fizzy pink celebration while her daughters chat to her and she watches her grandchildren play on the floor.

The air in the apartment is festive, light.

Derek is in the kitchen brewing coffee for their guests when his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen. It's Mark. A little nervous about why he's calling, he ducks further into the kitchen.

"Mark?"

"Hey. Is this, uh, is this a bad time?"

"No," he says immediately, blocking one ear so can hear Mark over Zola's happy yells from the living room. "What's going on?"

"I just … wanted to thank you."

Derek shifts the phone, confused. "Thank me?"

"Yeah." Mark pauses. "And to let you know, we're, uh, we're heading back to Lucerne. Flying out tomorrow."

"Oh. Meredith didn't mention – "

"Yeah, I didn't want to say anything in front of Viv before we knew for sure. So I'm, uh, I'm not sure how long we're staying this time, but…"

He doesn't finish the sentence, but now Derek understands. Mark, Addison, and Viv are leaving for Switzerland tomorrow. And Derek, Meredith, and Zola are only in New York for another … less than a week.

So they'll miss each other.

Which means it's over. Whatever it is, whatever they've been doing … is done.

Mark's not calling to thank him. Not really.

He's calling to say goodbye.

Before Derek can respond, there's a muffled sound and then Mark's voice, quiet as if his hand is over the receiver. "Hang on, I'm on the phone, just wait a minute."

Derek waits.

"Sorry," Mark says at normal volume, returning to the phone. "Hey, Meredith has been so great with Viv, and we really appreciate it, so … can you thank her for us? For all of us?"

"Sure. Of course." Derek's throat feels strangely thick at the phrase _all of us._

"Thanks, man. Thanks for, uh, you know, for everything. It was good to see you and, uh, good luck with your mom and with the new baby and … everything."

Derek feels a little cold, uncertain. He tries to shake the feeling. What can he say to Mark? Good luck with _your_ wife and child?

He feels he should say _something._ "Mark," he begins, but then there's another muffled sound on the other end of the phone.

"I better go," Mark says. "Take care, okay?"

And then he's gone.

And Derek's left thinking about all the ways people say _goodbye_ without using the word.

He feels … confused, maybe a little numb, like each step into the living room is a chore.

"Daddy! It's a _tea_ party!" Zola beams at him, tugging at his hand. "Come on!"

He can't say no to that, so he sits cross-legged on the floor with his daughter while his nieces who it seems just yesterday played tea party without irony have folded up their practically adult-sized bodies to fit on the floor with the little pink plastic tea cups.

How did it go so fast?

He glances across the room to where Meredith is talking with Liz, a glass of pink sparkling soda in her hand. Her other hand rests gently on the bump where their son is growing. She smiles at something his sister is saying, and even from a distance he can see the sparkle in her eyes.

She looks … happy.

Seeming to notice him looking at her, she glances over at him.

 _Everything okay?_

She mouths the question and he fingers the phone in his pocket, thinks about Mark's gruff voice on the phone, about _thank you_ and _goodbye_ and the unspoken words that they may never see Mark and his family again.

They have so little time. All of them.

So little time.

And then he thinks about last night, Meredith's panic attack. Her anxiety.

It seems to be dissipated now … and he won't be the one to bring it back.

Making the decision to keep one more secret, he mouths _everything's fine_ to his wife before forcing a smile as he takes a pretend sip from the teacup his daughter presses into his hand.

* * *

 _To be continued. I'm a machine powered by your comments, so please review and let me know your thoughts!  
_


	30. a window opens

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews.** You are all so generous, and it is because of that that you're getting a big, long chapter instead of my doing my work like I should be. I hope you'll enjoy.

* * *

 _a window opens  
..._

* * *

He returns to the party with Mark's words ringing in his ears, but he forces a smile and pushes down his conflicted feelings. This is a time for celebration, for happiness, for enjoying the ease with which he's introduced Meredith into his family.

They've accepted her, it seems, and if his sisters have conflicts with each other, if whatever is going on with Nancy and her children is starting to bleed over into the larger sibling group – he needs to stay focused on the original intent of his trip.

He doesn't regret his brief reconnection with Mark and Addison, but there's no question it was an interruption, a distraction from the purpose of the trip: to support his mother and to bring Meredith into the Shepherd fold with less dysfunction than the last time he attempted it.

As he watches her chatting calmly with his sisters while Zola and her twin cousins play on the floor nearby … it feels like it was a success.

…

"Nancy," he says quietly, pulling his sister aside discreetly when they both happen into the kitchen. "How's Jesse doing?"

"How many times are you going to ask me that?"

He pauses, considering the question. "Are you looking for a number?"

She frowns. "Don't be flippant."

"I'm not being flippant. I'm being concerned."

"And I told you that you don't need to be concerned about my son."

"Nancy."

"He's getting help," she insists, "and I don't want to discuss it right now."

"Is Amy …" He pauses, not sure how to finish the sentence, but there's no need because she answers right away.

"Don't worry about Amy," Nancy says firmly.

It's such an odd statement when worrying about Amy has been such a familiar Shepherd family pastime for so long. And there are still so many unanswered questions: where is Amy now? What is her involvement with Jesse's treatment – whatever it is? Does Nancy even know where she is, or is she bluffing? And what about Amy's sudden seeming distance from the Sloan family, when she's been so enmeshed with them for so many years?

He finds himself dissecting what he saw, turning over the somewhat strange statements he didn't question in the moment.

His mother's words about penance _._

Mark's statement that Amy didn't owe them anything. _That's not how it works,_ he said.

Derek has spent years distancing himself from his family, and purposefully _not_ questioning statements like these has always been a part of that process. His sisters could spend hours dissecting a sentence, even a word, batting hypotheses back and forth and debating options. He saw a bit of this in the early days of his visit, when Addison's status was still a mystery. He's never liked that dynamic, never felt comfortable in it. Derek's ruminations are equally intense – maybe even more so – but they're internal, for the most part.

He turns over ideas in his own mind – he has to, it's a part of who he is, it's a necessary step to understanding. Silence, even seemingly ignoring a question or a topic … that's just what he needs to carry on the debate inside his own mind. In the post-mortem of his failed marriage, he came to realize that this internalizing played a role in driving the two of them apart. What his ex-wife came to see as indifference was the necessity he'd always found to process information on his own.

In his current marriage, he's aware of this tendency, and Meredith seems to understand it.

For both of these improvements, he's grateful.

…

The festive air in the apartment eventually gives given way to a quieter, post-party feel. Zola has fallen asleep on Derek's lap; the twins look pretty tired themselves, Joy engrossed in her phone, Sarah cross-legged on the floor half-listening to the adults' conversation.

Meredith pauses to stroke her daughter's soft cheek as she leans over to collect empty glasses and bring them back to the kitchen.

Derek's mother should be tiring – shouldn't she? But she seems to be enjoying holding court, talking to her daughters and granddaughters, asking questions and giving answers. Her energy levels are impressive considering her recent surgery. Meredith figures she's riding the post-discharge high, and will probably be exhausted once she lets herself rest.

They've prepared the guest room for her, with everything she'll need when the party finally winds to a close.

Liz glances at her wristwatch. "We should probably be heading out soon and stop imposing on Derek and Meredith."

"You're not," Meredith says quickly, then adds: "Are you going back to Connecticut tonight?"

She intended the question to be polite, but finds herself regretting her words when the sisters respond.

"Liz and I are sleeping at Nancy's tonight," Kathleen says casually, and Meredith sees Nancy's head snap up from her relatively distant spot on the other couch.

"What?" Nancy stares. "You never said anything, Kathy."

"I didn't?" Kathleen looks unconcerned. "Oh. But we don't usually … do we? I guess I just assumed you knew."

"But you … never said anything," Nancy repeats. Now she's fussing with one of the pillows on the couch, looking nervous.

Liz and Kathleen exchange a glance. "I didn't think it would be a problem … I mean, you have all those empty bedrooms."

Nancy is silent.

"It saves us a trip up to Connecticut and then back again tomorrow," Liz says gently.

"But you'd have to go all the way out to Brooklyn."

" _All the way out to Brooklyn,_ " Kathleen repeats. "You're certainly singing a different tune than when you made fun of us for moving out of the city."

"It's just – with traffic on the bridge, it's probably faster to go to Connecticut," Nancy says, her words tumbling out quickly. "It took me forty minutes to get home the other night. Forty-five."

"Fifty-five to Beechwood," Kathleen counters, "at least, and more for Lizzie. And anyway, I took the train in."

"Can't you two share a car?"

"Of course we can," Liz says firmly. "Nance, it's fine." She shakes her head at Kathleen.

Joy tunes in at the tail end of the conversation. "Are you sleeping over, Aunt Lizzie?"

"Not tonight, honey." Liz smiles at her.

"How come? I wanted to show you my – "

"Joy." Nancy frowns at her. "You'll see Aunt Lizzie soon. Don't nag her."

"I wonder where she got that from?" Liz raises an eyebrow, then smiles at her niece.

"Very funny." Nancy shakes her head.

"Mom." Joy looks concerned. "What about – "

"We need to get going, Joy," Nancy interrupts. "Sarah – come on, we need to go."

"But, Mom," Sarah is talking now. "Is Dad going to be – "

"You know what, honey, we have the whole cab ride to talk. Let's say goodbye and get going."

Joy and Sarah exchange a look.

"Bye," Sarah says casually, and Joy gives her a little wave.

" _Girls._ I'm sorry, Meredith, my children are animals," Nancy says, shaking her head. "I did warn you."

"It's fine," she assures Nancy. "I'm … not much of a hugger myself."

Nancy is mid-embrace when she finishes the sentence which is … awkward, but Nancy doesn't seem to notice.

"Thanks for having us," Sarah adds.

"Yeah, thanks." Joy glances over at a sleeping Zola, placed on the couch with a blanket over her so that Derek can come say goodbye. "Can we see her again?"

"Come and play with her anytime," Meredith says, smiling.

Joy turns to her mother.

"Ooh, Mom, can Meredith and Derek bring Zola to - "

"Joy, I said _talk to me in the car._ " Nancy shakes her head, but her sharp tone is muted somewhat by the arm she wraps around her daughter. "And it's _Aunt_ Meredith and _Uncle_ Derek, do you want them to think we didn't teach you any manners?"

"We have manners," Joy scowls.

"Nancy, they're great," Meredith says. "They were so helpful with Zola."

"So can we?" Sarah turns to Derek now.

"Can you what?"

"See Zola."

"Of course you can, Sarah."

"Aunt Lizzie says we can all go her house when – "

"Okay, the Byrnes are leaving," Nancy announces loudly, "and anyone left behind pays their own carfare to Brooklyn."

"We're _coming_ ," Sarah sighs. She turns at the doorway and gives a little wave. "Thanks again," she says politely.

Liz and Kathleen leave with them. "We're not trying to break into your house, Nance, don't worry," Kathleen says coolly as the door swings shut behind them.

Derek turns the lock with finality, then leans against the door.

"They are … " Derek pauses. "A lot," he says finally.

"Well, you have a lot of sisters."

"And that's not even all of them." He leads Meredith back to the living room. "Mom … I think we should all take Zola's lead and turn in."

…

"Liz and Kathleen think Nancy is acting strange," Derek says once they've set a soundly sleeping Zola down on the big bed and returned to the empty living room, "and … yes, I realize I sound like a teenaged girl gossiping with her friends."

"Okay, first of all, teenaged boys gossip too," Meredith points out.

He smiles. "And second of all?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said _first of all …_ "

"Ah." Meredith nods. "Second of all … they're kind of right, aren't they?"

"Yeah." He settles back against the couch, drawing her with him. "They're kind of right."

Derek glances toward the growing pile of toys in the corner. "How does someone so small create such a big mess?"

"She's not that small anymore." Meredith's eyes are soft. "Remember when she was tiny?"

"Like it was yesterday." He rests his palm on the slight swell of her midsection. "This guy's going to be tiny."

"Tiny," she echoes. "Not a bad choice for a name. Tiny Shepherd."

"There, I disagree. That's a terrible name."

She laughs.

"And inaccurate," he adds.

"I get it." She leans her head against him. "Have you thought any more about his name?"

"Only that we shouldn't let Zola pick. I heard her name one of her baby dolls _Garbage Monster_ the other day."

…

They wake up to Zola crawling over them, the sweetest and cuddliest of alarm clocks – and the one with the most effective snooze button, because their daughter informs them in her most urgent tone that she is _hungry, hungry_ and she need a bagel _right now, Daddy._ When he doesn't instantly sit up she turns pleading eyes to Meredith as if she hasn't eaten for weeks. _Mommy, my bagel,_ she begs.

Derek can't help but smile at the specificity of her plea, though he does mutter to Meredith: "Have we kept her in Manhattan too long?"

He urges his wife to rest while he finds his daughter the requisite bagels. The peacefully slack lines of her face reassure him that he did the right thing not telling her Mark's potentially upsetting news. After all, Meredith is sleeping for two.

Outside, it's already steamy hot, promising another day of near-unbearable humidity.

Zola munches on a hefty chunk of apple as they walk, which seems to stave off her imminent starvation. She swaps the apple from fist to fist frequently, ensuring that the hand inside Derek's is always sticky with juice.

"Vivi's house," Zola says as they stroll down the sidewalk, pointing with her apple slice toward a rather dilapidated brickface low-rise.

 _Not even close, kiddo._

Out loud, he keeps his tone casual, non-committal, the same he uses when his daughter informs him the goldfish at daycare is actually Nemo: "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Vivi's my friend," Zola chatters happily. "She's _really_ big."

Derek is amused to hear that wiry little stringbean of a child called _big_ , but it reminds him – as his daughter so often does – that everything is relative.

"Vivi likes to swim with me," Zola continues. "We swim _all the time._ " She pauses, showing him a fair amount of half-chewed apple. "Wanna come with us, Daddy?"

"Sure," he says. "Chew that up, Zozo," he reminds her, "before it –"

Too late. The mouthful of apple pops out and lands on the sidewalk.

"…falls out," he continues.

Zola grins at his expression. "Pick it up," she suggests, one little hand reaching toward the glittering – but rather filthy - sidewalk.

"Let's leave it," Derek says hastily. "Come on, sweetie, we need to make sure we get bagels while they're still hot."

Zola is easily swayed by this warning, and trots next to him, occasionally pausing to coo at fat pigeons hopping along the cement.

At the bagel place that's become familiar – _bagel place,_ not _shop_ or _store_ – Derek hoists his daughter into his arms so she can help him choose. After a few wildcard selections, he puts in his usual order, adding enough spreads to fill them up.

"Grammy wants a _strawberry_ bagel," Zola says loudly, as if she's daring the aproned man behind the counter to tell her what blasphemy that is. He just smiles at her.

"Sorry, kid, we're all outta those today. How about some lox spread?" He points a thick finger. "It's pink," he tells her, and Derek is certain he must have his own girl-toddlers to recognize the aesthetic appeal of strawberry.

"Yes, _please,_ " Zola responds passionately. "Daddy, it's pink."

"It's pink, but it tastes fishy," he reminds her gently.

"I love fishies," Zola says, sounding hurt.

The man in the apron holds up an empty plastic container with a patient smile. "This size okay for the lox spread?"

"Yes," Derek sighs. "That size is fine."

Loaded down with a sack of still warm bagels and separately packed spreads, towing his sticky-handed little daughter, he makes his way back toward their temporary home.

"Grammy sleeping?" Zola tilts her head to look up at him as she walks.

This is one part of Manhattan living he enjoys. Gone are their father-daughter car rides with Zola in her carseat in the back, singing or talking or laughing while he sneaks the occasional look at her behind him in the rearview mirror. Here in the city, like everyone else, they walk. Zola's cocked head and inquisitive smile as she strolls _and_ asks questions at the same time?

Adorable.

It's hard to believe sometimes that they have another baby coming. Their hearts will open up for him, he knows this – they already have, he loves his unborn son, there's no question – but the idea of another child walking beside him, loving that child as deeply as he loves Zola, is hard to fathom right now.

He wonders if his mother felt this way with Liz. She was only two when Kathleen came along, but for that brief period in his mother's marriage to his father, were they as focused on their firstborn as Derek and Meredith are now? Did they sit in a circle before she could walk, cooing and clapping over her developmental milestones, competing for her gummy smiles and approving spit bubbles?

Despite his determination not to ruminate on Mark's phone call, he can't seem to help thinking of the other man's unborn son. Two tiny lives at the same stage of development.

"Swimming today?" Zola asks hopefully as he presses the button for their floor in the elevator.

"I don't know, Zo. Let's see what Grammy thinks," he proposes.

"Grammy thinks I'm swimming today," Zola says sternly.

"We'll see," Derek responds, then moves in quickly to distract when he sees her indrawn breath – the type that heralds her stauncher protests. "Hey, let's hurry back to the apartment to show Grammy what we brought her. Do you think she's ever seen pink cream cheese before?"

Zola's eyes widen. "I don't know," she whispers.

They enter the apartment to find his mother trudging along the living room floor in a housecoat, dutifully fulfilling the doctor's orders about walking. She beams when Zola bellows her name.

"Grammy. _Grammy_." Zola stands in front of Carolyn with hands on hips and the demeanor of a town crier, and pauses dramatically before issuing her exciting news: "We have _pink cream cheese._ "

"Pink cream cheese?" Carolyn repeats. "Oh, my. That's a big surprise."

"Yeah," Zola says happily. "Come on, Grammy, it's breakfast."

Derek's mother smiles at him. "I guess she's not feeling shy around me."

"As if anyone could be shy around you." Derek kisses his mother on the cheek. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a million bucks," Carolyn says cheerfully, "waking up in this lovely apartment instead of a hospital room."

His mother's trademark optimism is clearly at play here – _lovely_ is a stretch by any measure – but he understands her point.

The excited rise and fall of Zola's little voice drifts out from the kitchen, where she's apparently regaling Meredith with stories of their bagel jaunt.

Meredith peeks around the corner of the kitchen's open door, holding a mug. "We should probably eat before Zola passes out from the suspense," she suggests.

Zola surprises him with her voracious appetite for lox spread.

"She's a real little New Yorker," Carolyn says with a smile.

"For pink things, anyway," Derek responds, reaching over to catch a glob of the brightly-colored spread before it drops onto his daughter's lap.

"What's on our agenda today?"

His mother always loved agendas. Growing up in her home, their lives were tightly scheduled in pencil – because things were always changing – on the school board-issues calendar in the kitchen. Initials were key to save room, and abbreviations, some of which only Carolyn understood: _L tennis 2-4, N dentist 3:30, D t-ball 5-6._

"You tell us," Derek says. "You're the boss."

Zola seems to like this and giggles. "Grammy's the boss," she repeats.

"You got it, Zozo." Derek smiles at her.

"Physical therapy," his mother says. "Maybe some fresh air."

Derek shakes his head. "It's a steam bath out there. I wouldn't call it _fresh_."

"It's still air." Carolyn frowns. "And the girls are coming by for lunch, I believe." She pauses. "How any of them can keep a patient when they act like I need twenty-four hour nursing care … well."

"I think they just want to spend time with you," Derek says lightly.

"I see them quite a bit, you know." Carolyn sips her tea. "Getting a chance to catch up with you … now, that's special."

She manages not to make it sound like she wants him to feel guilty; still, he does.

"This is delicious," his mother says, changing the subject as she indicates her buttered bagel. "And thank you for not teasing me about the butter, like your friend used to – what was his name?"

"Weiss," Derek says automatically. It's been a while since he's thought about his old friend, someone else he left behind when he moved across the country.

"You didn't stay in touch," his mother probes gently, seeming to read his mind.

Derek shakes his head with a tight-lipped smile. He was close with Weiss at one point, as were their wives to each other, but they were at their core couple friends – something else that went to Addison in the divorce. He chose to make a clean break with New York and he hasn't regretted it; still, he knows there was collateral damage: the friends with whom he lost touch, who never did anything wrong; his family, too far away for frequent contact and admittedly, when it came to some of his sisters, a bit too closely enmeshed with his ex-wife.

His mother doesn't press any further.

He's just about to think they've escaped sensitive topics when Zola takes a partially chewed hunk of bagel out of her mouth and beams at her father. "I can see Vivi today?"

"Not today, sweetie," he says before Meredith can respond, keeping his tone calm. He glances up at the adults. "Addison is home now," he says quietly for his mother's benefit, "and I think we should give them some space."

Meredith looks slightly uneasy, but she just shakes her head when he gives her a quizzical look.

"Okay," Zola says sadly, perking up considerably when Derek lets her spread another layer of pink cream cheese on what's left of her bagel.

…

Lunch with _the girls_ turns out to be just one girl.

"Nancy said she had to work." Liz shrugs when she arrives, laden with white paper takeout bags. "And Kathleen had an emergency with a patient."

Her tone suggests that Kathleen's excuse is more legitimate than Nancy's, even if their surfaces are the same, but Derek doesn't question it and if his mother notices, she doesn't say anything.

They enjoy deli sandwiches for lunch, piled alarmingly high – "you're not in New York much longer," Liz reminds him, gesturing for emphasis with a massive half-sour pickle. The apartment's air conditioning is pumping overtime, but it's blessedly cool inside. Outside, the heat and humidity makes everything wilt.

Derek is in no rush to leave their little cocoon. He should be feeling stir-crazy, maybe, but he's not. Meredith leaves at one point on a supply run – perhaps an understandable ruse for alone time; he discourages Liz from joining her for that reason. The afternoon passes enjoyable with Zola and Carolyn spending patient hours at the kitchen table putting together a chunky wooden puzzle, taking it apart, and then putting it back together again … until grandmother and granddaughter are both ready for their naps.

Liz takes her leave then, telling Derek she's planning to go uptown to say hello to Carly.

"Let her study," Derek teases his sister.

"I'm just going to say hello." Liz frowns. "Let's see how good you are at staying away when it's Zola in medical school up until all hours in the library. And anyway, you seem to have everything under control here."

 _Everything under control._

Is that how it seems to his sister? To outsiders?

He gives Liz a kiss on the cheek. "Thanks for coming by."

"Derek, wait." Liz holds the door open, standing in the hallway on the other side of the threshold. "Look, I know Kathy can be a little … well, Kathy, but Nancy did sound kind of weird on the phone."

"She called you?"

"To tell me she couldn't come."

"Oh." Derek schools his face. "What do you mean by weird?"

"I don't know. Just … weird."

Derek nods as neutrally as he can. "She hasn't said anything to me," he tells his sister.

Unfortunately … it's true.

…

Despite her years-long insistence that television rots the brain, Carolyn seems more than happy to cuddle with Zola on the couch watching _Krabby Koala Adventures_ , while Zola points out her favorite and least favorite marsupials.

"They're cute together," Meredith says, smiling at him.

" _And_ they're on the same nap schedule," Derek points out, "which is very convenient."

Meredith laughs and he steals a quick kiss from her parted lips.

The atmosphere inside the apartment is peaceful and slow, yet the day passes quickly. Derek takes Zola for ice cream in the early evening, more to tire her out than for the sugary treat, since it's still so hot out that most of her cone melts on her before they're halfway home.

Zola doesn't seem to mind, just solemnly licking vanilla drips from her bare arms. Derek can't resist taking his own nibble, and she laughs appreciatively.

It's a fair amount of work to restrain his enthusiastic daughter in the doorway before she throws her sticky self at her mother and grandmother, but he manages to get her cleaned up before anyone else is covered in ice cream too.

The rest of the evening is calm, almost relaxing, with Zola nibbling leftovers for dinner and not even offering a token protest before Meredith scoops her away for a bath.

Derek makes his mother a cup of tea to the carried sound of Zola splashing in the tub.

"You have a rhythm down," his mother observes.

"What do you mean?"

"You, and Meredith, and Zola." She smiles at him. "It will be different when the baby comes."

"I know." He pauses. He was always reticent to ask his mother about the early days of her marriage, worried he'd stir up sadness about his father. Tentatively, he asks it anyway. "Was that what it was like for you? When it was just Liz?"

To his relief, she smiles warmly, her eyes lit with nostalgia but no grief he can discern. "We were so young." She shakes her head. "Your father was working all the time, on the road with his wares trying to build up enough of a client base to start the shop, and then _at_ the shop. I'd take Elizabeth down there to see him –"

That's right, they lived over the store then.

"- and she'd sit on the counter and kick her little feet, just happy to see her daddy wherever it was. He thought she hung the moon." Carolyn pauses. "When Kathleen came along, things got busier and then they never really stopped. But it was worth it. Seeing the girls together, I was always glad we kept going." She smiles at Derek. "I hope that's what you'll have. That Zola and her little brother will be close."

He gets the sense she's hinting at something.

"I don't mean anything by it," she says as if she's read his mind, "just that the older girls were always thick as thieves and then you came along, my only boy and with four years between you and Nancy, and no brothers." She looks pensive for a moment. "Well, until Mark."

Derek considers this. He's been trying to avoid thinking about Mark; a rather petty part of him hopes that focusing on their youthful brotherhood – and its destruction when Mark betrayed him – will stop him from worrying about present-day Mark.

"It's terrible, what's happening with him," Carolyn says tentatively, "but maybe it might be healing, you know, for both of you if you can rebuild-"

"Sorry, Mom, I need to give Meredith a hand with Zola's bath," Derek interrupts. He flashes a weak smile as he walks away, heart pounding.

 _What's the matter with you?_ He shakes his head at his own foolishness as he makes his way into the bathroom where a soapy, giggling Zola helps to wash away the tension that was threatening to overtake him.

Zola is sparkling clean and bubble bath-scented when they wrap her in her little robe and bring her out to give her grandmother a damp kiss goodnight.

They work their way step by step through her bedtime routine then, delighting in the ritual as much as their daughter does.

"Where's Zola?" Meredith looks around, feigning confusion, while a little green-and-white pajama top conceals their favorite face. "Where did she go?"

Zola's giggles rise in intensity from inside the fabric.

It's such an adorable tradition.

And it's a funny thing, Derek realizes, how something becomes a tradition. He's not sure either of them ever meant to build one. It just … happened, and now Zola expects it every time.

"Sleepy time," Meredith tells her, "so we have lots of energy to play in the morning."

"And _no_ work," Zola says with a big grin and Derek feels a pang.

Things that just … happen become the things children expect, he's coming to realize, and the last week and a half with both of her parents at close proximity, no one working, extra family members around to dote on her … a week and a half is a lot for a toddler, a lot of _normal_ that's become _new normal._

They tuck Zola into the toddler bed in her little bedroom, even if the whole thing has the feel of an elaborate ruse. There's no rail to keep her in, and she'll come find her parents when she needs them, but all three members of the family act out _bedtime_ as if they'll be separated for the entire night.

Zola persuades her parents to read a third book, enjoying having them both in her room. If not for her impossibly long lashes already resting on her soft cheeks, she'd probably barter for a fourth.

Their first baby is breathing heavily in sweet sleep by the time they leave her room.

…

It's been a nice day. More than that … a calm day. A quiet day.

Now Meredith is smiling at him, looking a little tired and more than a little beautiful, and he wants nothing more than to curl up with her and forget the rest of the world.

But he owes her the truth, and he's already sat on it long enough. Maybe longer than he should have. Didn't Meredith tell him he needed to trust her? Trust her to manage her anxiety, trust her to do what was best for herself and for the baby?

"Mer." He touches her arm. "I, uh, I need to tell you something."

"That doesn't sound too promising," she says teasingly, but then her smile drops away when he doesn't return it. "Derek … what's wrong?"

"Mark called," he says quietly, and when her eyes widen he realizes he should have started differently, because it looks like Meredith is expecting the worst. "No, it's not – I mean, he was telling me that they're going back to Switzerland. Mark and Addison, and Vivian."

"Oh." Meredith blinks. "I didn't realize. He didn't say anything yesterday."

"He wanted me to say –" he stops before forming the word _goodbye_. "… to say thank you," he continues, "for taking care of Vivian."

"Of course." She looks troubled. "Why are they going back now, did he tell you?"

Derek shakes his head, and then watches Meredith's face as she does the same calculation he did last night when Mark called.

The Sloans, back to Europe.

The Shepherds, only in New York for a few more days.

"So I guess that's … that," she says.

"Yeah. I guess so." Derek pauses, not sure what else he wants to say.

That he never intended to reintroduce Mark or Addison back into his life, or Meredith's life? That among the conflicting feelings he's been trying to sort are relief – and guilt about that relief – but also disappointment, and confusion about that disappointment?

He can't truthfully deny that a small part of himself he'd shut off long ago felt full circle to see Mark's child and his child play together like friends. Like family. Like their fathers used to do.

It was a future he used to imagine in the early days of his marriage, one that slowly faded and finally winked out years before the divorce.

"Are you okay?"

He glances up at Meredith's gentle question. In this light, her eyes are soft and impossibly pale green.

 _I may never see them again._

He tests the words.

 _I will never see them again._

He tests them with finality. Once, _never seeing them again_ was a comforting thought, one that helped power him across the country and into a new life.

Now, though. Now, it feels different.

"Derek?" Meredith looks concerned.

Slowly, and maybe even reassuringly, he nods.

It's over. But that happens. Things end … and people move on.

"Yeah, I'm okay." He reaches out to touch the side of her face, appreciating the warmth and vitality of her skin under his palm. "I'm okay," he repeats, and she smiles a little, like she wants him to think she believes it.

…

The buzzing of his phone jars him out of a deep sleep and for a moment he's disoriented at the unexpected shapes in the darkness.

Then, with a jolt he remembers where he is and why, and he's awake enough to grab the vibrating phone from the nightstand.

 _Mark._

Calling at almost three o'clock in the morning.

He's already nervous as he drags the phone to his ear, curling his body protectively away from Meredith so he doesn't wake her.

"Mark?"

His old friend's words, crackling a little, leave him cold.

"What?" Derek breathes the word into the phone, confused. "I don't understand, what do you – "

His heart pounds faster as Mark's still-familiar voice tumbles hoarsely through the phone line, until his heartbeat is so loud his whole body pulses with the rhythm of it.

Derek doesn't have to think the words before he says them; his mouth seems to know. "Of course," he whispers. "Whatever you need."

And in that moment, Derek realizes what he almost forgot.

That there are times when you're certain something is over … and then it turns out you're wrong.

It turns out it's just beginning.

* * *

 _To be continued. (Of course.) Pretty please review and let me know what you think!_


	31. winter is all over you

**A/N: I am still here** and I'm not going anywhere. Thanks to everyone who has been waiting patiently. This has been an incredibly hectic couple of weeks, but I will always come back to update my stories. Starting with this one. I hope you're still reading and will enjoy this chapter. **Neb** and **Patsy** , this update's for you.

* * *

 _winter is all over you_  
…

* * *

Mark's words echo in his head, tight and grim, replaying in short bursts as the city flies past the taxi windows.

 _She was having trouble breathing._

 _Schuyler Hill. It's the closest ER._

 _I didn't know who else to call._

That last one … is the toughest.

Meredith's voice cuts into his memory too, soft with sleep and concern, as cold air conditioning blasts out of the back-seat vents.

 _Of course you should go. I'll handle things here, make sure we're ready. Go._

It doesn't take long at all at this hour for the taxi to cover the ground between the somewhat removed and dingy neighborhood where they've been staying and the stately blocks Mark and his family call home.

Schuy Hill is a good hospital, he recalls, a solid one, connected with Samson's medical school. Both he and Addison have held temporary privileges there at one time or another when they both lived in Manhattan. It has a well-regarded emergency department.

And … it's four blocks from Mark and Addison's townhouse, a painful reminder that time was of the essence when they left.

Adrenaline carries him from the cab through the brightly lit lobby, fluorescents hitting his eyes as he flashes his badge to security.

He follows Mark's directions down a beige-speckled linoleum hallway – all hospital floors look the same, they all smell the same of bleach and sweat, a hint of fear – and he sees them as soon as he rounds the corner, sharing a blue vinyl chair feet from a curtained-off area.

Mark's head is tipped back against the wall, but his eyes are open. Vivian is sitting on his lap wrapped in what looks like a hospital-issued blanket and leaning against him. She glances up blearily when Derek approaches with nothing more dramatic than wan recognition.

Derek lifts a hand in weak greeting; his old friend's face is pale, dark shadows under his eyes.

He looks … like a man roused in the middle of the night because his wife couldn't breathe.

Or maybe he was awake _already_ , staying up to watch her breathe. Derek's not sure which thought is sadder.

A young nurse exchanges a glance with Mark as Derek approaches their station.

"Vivian," the nurse says gently, crouching down to eye level with the little girl, "why don't you come with me to the bathroom, lovey. You haven't been in a long time."

Viv looks nervously at Mark.

"It's okay, baby, I'll be right here when you get back." Mark's voice sounds rough, like he isn't used to using it. "And it's right over there, remember?" He points, then kisses the side of her head. "Go with Nurse Cindy."

When Vivian stands up, the blanket falls away to reveal summer pajamas with a pattern of rainbows on them, jarringly cheerful in the hospital hallway. Her flip flops are noisy on the linoleum floor as she follows the nurse, long tangled hair hanging down her back and over her shoulders.

Derek thinks of the three of them rushing out of the townhouse without any time to get dressed.

But there will be time to think later. For now, for the brief moments of privacy, he has to ask …

 _What happened?_

But he doesn't need to, because Mark is already talking, his voice slightly muffled as he holds his head in his hands.

"She was having trouble breathing,"

Derek nods. It's a layman's description. A husband's.

"You called an ambulance?"

Mark shakes his head. "Schuy Hill is so close, it was faster just to put her in a cab."

"And did they –"

"They're not sure." Mark looks grim. "Could be pneumonia, could be …"

He doesn't finish the sentence.

 _Could be the disease spreading._

But it shouldn't move this quickly.

Then again, none of it should be happening.

"And … the baby?" Derek is almost afraid to ask.

"Hooked up to monitors and doing just fine." Mark shakes his head. "He's a tough little bastard."

The words are harsh but his tone is somewhere between admiring and affectionate.

"Mark," Derek begins, but he's interrupted before he can continue.

"I'm sorry I called you in the middle of the night. We don't have – you know, Bizzy is an hour away and Addie's been doling out information anyway, I don't think she'd want … and Amy …" His voice trails off, no sentence finished. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"I'm glad you called," Derek says firmly. "Stop apologizing."

Derek considers his words carefully, not wanting to worry Mark even more. "For the, um, for sleeping … arrangements."

"She, uh, she doesn't usually sleepwalk in new places, actually. Not at first. Something about … I don't know. The brain, that's your thing, right? The rest of it, I just don't …"

"We can handle it," Derek says firmly. "Did you, um, does she know why I'm here?"

Mark shakes his head – unnecessarily, because the bleak expression in his eyes makes clear he hasn't been able to tell her yet.

There's no time to discuss it because Vivian emerges hand in hand with Nurse Cindy. She breaks away when she gets close and goes to her father, shivering a little.

"You cold, baby?" He rubs her bare arms.

She shakes her head no.

"Good. Okay." Mark takes her face in his hands. "Vivi … I need you to listen to me, baby. You're going to go with Derek-"

"No," Viv says immediately.

" - back to his apartment," Mark continues, "and see Zola so Daddy can stay here and help Mommy."

"No, I don't want to," Viv protests.

"Please, Vivi, I need you to be a big girl."

Vivian shakes her head hard, tangled hair moving around her pale face, clutching at her father's shirt.

"Please, baby, it's okay. I need you to go with Derek." Mark detaches her fingers from his shirt but she grabs the fabric again, trying to get closer.

"No, I want to stay here," Viv whimpers.

"It's just for tonight, Vivi." Mark's voice breaks a little. "Just one night."

"No!"

"Vivian, I said you're _going_." Mark's tone is sharp enough to make the little girl flinch and Derek sees tears pooling in her eyes.

"Mark," he says quietly, resting a hand on the other man's tense shoulder. The look in his old friend's eyes is nothing short of desperate.

Derek tries not to think what it would be like to have to choose between comforting Zola and trying to help Meredith through a medical crisis.

Once again he's struck by the fact that Mark seems to have few – if any – good choices.

Derek kneels down in front of Vivian, cold linoleum on his legs. "Hey … Viv … you know what, Zola is sleeping right now, but I know she'd really like to see you when she wakes up. She and Meredith know you're coming over. I'm sorry they couldn't come to get you too."

Vivian blinks, not saying anything; a tear slides down her cheek. She looks from Mark to Derek.

"It's really late now," Derek continues. "So they're sleeping. But if you come over to our apartment and sleep a little, too, you and Zola can wake up and play together in the morning."

Vivian is quiet for a long moment.

"I don't have my panda," she says finally, her voice soft.

"She sleeps with it. It's at the house." Mark looks pained. "I didn't grab it when we were – we were rushing," he explains, needlessly. "Vivi … can you just sleep without it tonight, baby, just for one night?"

"No," she whimpers. "I can't."

"I have an idea," Derek says quickly, before Mark can lose his patience again. "How about we go to your house, Viv, and pick up your panda, and then we can go back to our apartment and you can see Zola."

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Vivian nods, slowly, and he exhales with relief.

"Mark." Derek stands up again, the cracking in his knees an unwelcome reminder that he's not so young anymore. "Give me your keys."

"You don't have to do this."

"I want to," Derek says simply. He waits until the keys are jingling in one hand to hold out his other hand to Mark's daughter.

Viv inches her own hand towards him, then turns and throws both arms around Mark's legs.

Derek sees tears in the other man's eyes as he reaches down to stroke his daughter's hair, then lifts her into his arms, rocking her back and forth for a moment.

"It's going to be okay, baby, you go with Derek and I swear I'll get you as soon as I can," he tells her hoarsely. "Okay?"

"Okay," she whispers, and Mark sets her on her feet.

"Derek … thank you-

"You don't have to thank me."

Derek is surprised when Vivian slips her little palm into his hand without protest to accompany him.

She's obviously exhausted, feet dragging in her flip flops, and he pauses their slow pace halfway down the seemingly endless hall.

"Are you tired?"

Slowly, she nods.

"I can carry you," he offers.

He expects Vivian to reject the idea but she must be beyond exhausted because she pauses and, without speaking, holds up her arms.

Very carefully, not wanting to harm the fragile trust they seem to be building, he lifts her up.

She must weigh more than Zola and she's far taller, but she feels light, long and spindly. With her sharp elbows and tense muscles, carrying her feels so different from holding his own soft and pudgy little toddler.

He muses on the fact that it was only a few years ago that Vivian was Zola's size.

…

Meredith moves through the apartment as quietly as she can, bare feet soft on the now-familiar floors, not wanting to wake either her daughter or her mother-in-law. Zola was sleeping peacefully in a warm little ball when Meredith left the bedroom, unable to resist pausing to kiss one soft cheek.

 _Go back to sleep_ , that's what Derek urged, but Meredith followed him to the door and then turned to survey the apartment, trying to take on the perspective of a four-foot-tall sleepwalker. Phone in one hand to search for ideas, she moves from room to room, packing away anything that seems dangerous but was too high up to make them worry about Zola. Thankfully, the kitchen cabinets are already child-locked. She makes sure to draw the adult-height bolds on both terrace doors.

The junior bedroom that Zola has shunned, for the most part, has clean sheets and a soft pink comforter. It's reassuringly close to the ground, too. Meredith dims the main lights and turns on the one by the bed, trying to make it look soothing.

 _Because mood lighting can definitely fix her problems._

She shakes her head at her own brief optimism. Finally, she stands in front of the kitchen entryway, hand propped on her hip. There's no way to lock her out of the kitchen from the outside.

… not without having to explain to Derek some pretty gritty – if somewhat amusing, in hindsight – details about how she got so adept at opening locks with credit cards.

…

"Can we stay here?"

It's the first time Vivian has spoken since they left the hospital. She was quiet as he carried her down winding hallways to the brightly-lit hospital lobby, made no sound on the short cab ride from Schuy Hill to Mark and Addison's townhouse, sat silent in his arms as he fiddled with Mark's house keys at the front door.

Not a word escaped her until Derek set her down on the hardwood floor of the foyer to try to find a light switch.

Now he considers Vivian's question while he tries to illuminate the vast ground level of the townhouse. "We can," he says tentatively, "if you want to, but I think your daddy is expecting you to come to our apartment. Plus, I know Zola wants to see you."

"Okay," Vivian says in a small voice.

And then the great room floods with light – he's finally found the switch – and he's faced with the unmistakable evidence of the family's hasty and frightened exit the previous night. There are packed suitcases on the floor, presumably for the flight to Switzerland they never made, a jumble of shoes by the door, a small pink twist tie that must have come from Vivian's hair or wrist.

He blinks into the brightness, then turns to Viv, forcing a hearty voice. "Let's get your panda," he says, "and we can pack some clothes for you for the morning, too."

Vivian leads him up the stairs, presumably toward her bedroom. He's never seen this part of the house. The staircase is oversized and grand – the whole house looks like it was meant for a far bigger family than the Sloans.

The door she pushes open leads to a large room with two sizable beds, the rows of pillows against the matching padded headboards and fluffy coverlets look untouched. He supposes she wasn't sleeping there last night, since there's no sign of haste in their neat arrangement. It's easy to recognize Addison in the room's decoration, she didn't like things to be too _match matchy_ , as she used to put it, but of course they still had to look the way she wanted, with the non-matching pieces corresponding in ways only she seemed to understand.

There's a window seat with yellow-patterned cushions, a private reading area with drapey curtains extending from the ceiling and comfortable-looking pillows for sitting. The walls are a soft shade somewhere between dove grey and lilac. Books are everywhere, interspersed with surprisingly cheerful accoutrements of a first grader: a medal with the silhouette of a diver, a set of brightly-colored Russian nesting dolls, a well worn set of pastels spread out on the white-wood desk.

His gaze falls on a photograph propped up on one of the bookshelves lining the wall. It's recent, from the looks of it: Vivian in a plaid jumper, blue satin ribbons in her hair, sitting on a stone wall with two other little girls dressed the same way. Each child is holding an ice cream cone and based on the cherry blossoms dipping into the frame, it's springtime.

"That's my school," Vivian says when she catches him looking, and he nods.

 _And those are my friends,_ she doesn't need to say, _and that was my life before all this._

Because if there's one thing he's learned in twenty years of practicing medicine, it's that there's always a _before_. Patients come to the hospital in the _after_ – without question, the Sloans are in the _after_ , and this room, this cheerful and tastefully appointment little girl's bedroom, is a painful reminder that the _before_ is long gone.

Derek just smiles at her. The panda he recalls from his brief visit days ago is tucked under one of her arms as she moves confidently around the room to fill a preppy-looking canvas bag with her initials on it; she clearly knows exactly where everything is.

Still, her face looks wan and exhausted, and she keeps throwing quick, nervous glances at Derek as she packs.

"Good job," he praises her. "Why don't you get your toothbrush."

She does – from a bathroom off her bedroom, claw-foot tub and a pile of fluffy white towels visible through the open door. It seems like more than a child her age needs, but it's none of his business. He notices that the toothbrush is already in a neat travel case along with a few other things, and recalls that Vivian and her parents were supposed to leave the country

While she sorts her possessions, Derek finds himself drawn to another picture. This one is Mark and Vivian – it looks like it's a couple of years old; he's lying on a hammock in the grass and she's sitting up on top of him, laughing, while he gazes at her with pure adoration. Addison must have snapped the picture – it's a lovely shot, but it's startling to think they were ever so carefree.

He turns to Vivian.

"Is there anything else you like for when you're sleeping, other than your panda? How about we bring your pillow?" He points vaguely in the direction of the neat pile of pillows on the two beds.

She shakes her head no.

He considers asking her if she wants to change her clothes now – she's not even six years old but she strikes him as having a certain … dignity, and part of him feels guilty at making her run around the city in sleeveless rainbow-printed pajamas in the middle of the night.

But she doesn't seem particularly bothered, and it's late, so he trails her back down to the first floor, knowing she'll be going to sleep soon.

 _At least he hopes she'll be able to sleep._

Vivian pauses at the foot of the staircase.

"Wait, I forgot something!"

She jogs up the stairs alone and when she comes back down she's clutching a little sterling frame. She shows it to Derek; it's a photograph of a beaming Addison holding a pudgy little baby version of Viv, who's extending a hand to the camera and smiling.

The picture is faded; it must have been sitting in the sun for years.

"That's a nice picture," Derek tells her gently. "You want to put it in your bag?"

Vivian clutches the frame and shakes her head.

Derek takes the panda to free up one of her hands, slings her little canvas bag over his shoulder and lifts her up.

Her head is drooping toward his shoulder; he can't imagine how exhausted she must be by now. She manages to stay awake on the cab ride, through the lobby, and if the concierge is puzzled to see him arriving at three in the morning with a decidedly not-Zola little girl in his arms, he covers it up smoothly.

…

Meredith pulls open the door when she hears the jingling of Derek's keys, relieved they've made it back; he shoots her a grateful look. His hands are clearly full – more than full – balancing a stuffed panda bear and a canvas bag under one arm and cradling an exhausted-looking Vivian with the other.

Meredith studies the little girl quickly: she's wearing nothing but brightly-colored summer pajamas – they must have rushed to the hospital straight from sleep – with flip flops hanging off her dangling feet; her long hair is tangled around her face.

"Hey, Viv," Meredith says quietly, smiling at her and then standing back so they can pass into the hallway. She takes the bag and stuffed animal from Derek, allowing him to use both hands to set Vivian carefully on her feet.

Meredith sees Viv is clutching a small silver frame in her hands. She squats to address a silent Viv on her level.

"Zola is going to be really happy to see you in the morning, Viv. But she's sleeping now. Let's get you settled so you can sleep too, okay?" Meredith keeps her voice low, reaching out to stroke the top of Viv's head. "You brought your toothbrush?"

Viv nods.

"Why don't you go brush your teeth. You remember where the bathroom is, right?"

Viv nods again. Meredith considers asking if she wants her to hold the picture frame for her but the child's grip is so tight that she's pretty sure the answer will be no. So she just smiles at Viv as she flip flops her way down the hall into the bathroom.

She stands up and turns to Derek as soon as they have privacy.

"How is she doing?" Meredith's gaze flickers toward the closed powder room door. She doesn't specify _Viv_ , not wanting to make it more likely the child will be attuned to her own name, but she doesn't need to. Derek gets it.

"I guess as well as she can be," Derek says. "She was at the hospital with Mark for a while, and she didn't want to leave … I'm a little surprised she went with me, to be honest."

Meredith is too; Vivian has seemed somewhere between uneasy and less-than-thrilled with Derek each time she's seen them interact before tonight, but she didn't see any hint of protest in the exhausted child Derek carried into the apartment.

"And Addison?" Meredith asks cautiously.

Derek's face is grim. "She was having trouble breathing," he says, the part of the story Meredith knows. "Her sats are up on a constant O2 flow, but that's all I know. They haven't isolated the issue and Mark, uh, he said she was going in and out. He's with her now."

Meredith doesn't ask how Mark is doing. She's aware there's no real answer to that.

"The baby," she says hesitantly instead, her own hand coming to rest almost unconsciously on the small swell of her belly.

Derek's hand, bigger and warmer, comes to rest on top of hers. "The baby's okay. He's strong," and her husband smiles a little bit as he says this. "They're monitoring him."

"Is she able to – "

"Hey, are you all set for bed?" Derek asks Viv a little louder, a little brighter, than necessary, alerting Meredith to her presence. Meredith turns to see Vivian walking toward them uncertainly.

She glances from Meredith to Derek, not responding, but she follows them toward the little junior bedroom without complaint.

"In there?" Viv asks, her husky little voice hoarser than usual, when Derek opens the door.

Meredith nods. "It's Zola's room. But she's not sleeping in there right now. She's sharing it with you instead."

Viv doesn't say anything, and Meredith glances at Derek, who looks uncertain. She tries to remember if Viv's sleep disturbances mean that she's not left alone.

"Would you rather sleep in the other room with us, and Zola?" Derek offers. It's not the most practical suggestion, but Meredith is touched by his words nonetheless.

Vivian shakes her head no.

"Okay." Meredith smiles at her. "Do you want me to stay in here with you?"

Viv pauses for a minute, then shakes her head no again.

Meredith pulls back the puffy little pink comforter on the child-sized bed. Zola hasn't spent much time in here, but her things have managed to take over anyway, with stacks of picture books, stray plastic food items, and a bulky pair of pink net fairy wings keeping company together on the carpet.

Vivian climbs into bed silently, her blue eyes wary, still clutching the silver frame in her hands.

"If you need anything, you can come and get me," Meredith tells her. "I'll be right in there." She points toward the big bedroom.

Viv looks at Derek, her expression conflicted.

"It's okay, Viv, Derek doesn't mind if you wake us up, right?"

"Of course not," he says quickly. "You come and get us if you wake up or if you need us for anything, okay?"

Vivian nods.

Derek says his goodnights then, telling Viv he'll see her in the morning, and squeezing Meredith's shoulder lightly on the way out.

Alone with Vivian, Meredith adjusts the covers, tucking the little girl in with her panda. Viv switches the silver photo frame to one clenched hand and wraps the other around the black and white stuffed animal whose stitched on smile seems jarringly cheerful.

Smiling in spite of her discomfort, her anxiety, she smooths some of Viv's long hair out of her face. There's so much of it, breeze-blown and unbrushed, that she's not sure she makes a real difference. Still, Vivian doesn't seem to mind being touched and Meredith wants to offer what comfort she can.

Viv's eyes are open, but her lashes are fluttering from sheer exhaustion. Meredith notices that the frame in her hands has sharp edges. She pauses for a moment.

"Can I see?" She keeps her tone gentle, indicating the frame.

Viv pauses, then unfurls her little fingers and shows Meredith what she's been holding: a slightly faded photograph of a much-younger, smiling Viv in her mother's arms. It's hard to connect the wiry, serious-faced little girl she's come to know with the pudgy, happy-looking baby in the frame. Then again, the Addison holding baby Viv looks healthy and untouched by the sadness that has been clinging to all of the Sloans since Meredith and Derek were first reintroduced this summer.

Suddenly, Meredith has to blink back tears.

"That's a nice picture, Viv," she says softly. "I can see why you want to keep it with you."

Vivian doesn't respond.

Carefully, Meredith moves the child-sized night table closer to the little bed and taps its smooth surface. "Why don't we put the picture right here so you can look at it?"

The little girl considers her suggestion, then nods. Meredith helps her prop the frame up on the table, facing the bed, and then finally an exhausted Viv leans her head back against the pillow.

Meredith smiles down at her. "You want me to stay until you fall asleep?"

"No, thank you," Viv says softly.

"Okay. You come get us if you need anything." Meredith pauses. "Hey … Zola wakes us up all the time," she tells Viv with a smile, "so we're pretty good at it."

Viv's mouth twitches.

"Good night, Viv."

"Night," she says, her voice muffled by her stuffed panda.

Meredith draws the door closed behind her but can't seem to bring herself to leave quite yet, leaning back against the wall, one hand resting on her belly, thinking how unfair it is that no matter how much you love someone, there are things no one can make easier.

She waits for a few moments – not sure what she's waiting for, exactly, but when there's no sound from the little bedroom, she heads for the kitchen. Derek is leaning against the counter right where she expected to find him, looking troubled. She walks toward him without speaking and tucks herself under his chin. She won't always fit this easily, not when Junior starts to take up more space in her body, but for now they're still two matched puzzle pieces.

His hands sift through her hair, soothing her. There's something peaceful, yet still eerie, about being the only ones awake in the dim kitchen with the wafting gusts of air conditioning and the insistent buzzing of the refrigerator.

Derek looks more pensive than troubled when she draws back. She raises a hand to touch his face. "

She indicates the sleepwalk-proofing she did – or tried to do. "I'm not sure there's anything else we can do," she admits. "I thought about sleeping in the living room, but with the bedroom door open we're just as close. We should be able to hear if she gets up."

"We can put aluminum foil outside her door," Derek suggests.

"She's not a cat." Meredith frowns. "But yeah, I guess it can't hurt."

"What?"

"Nothing." He wraps an arm around her as he walks. "I'm just thinking about how tired they must be."

 _All the time_ , he doesn't have to say.

Meredith leans her head against him, but she doesn't fully exhale until they're in bed, tucked around their toddler's warm little body. Zola is sleeping peacefully and undisturbed, her little rosebud of a mouth puckered as if she's considering something terribly interesting in her dreams. _Stay this innocent forever,_ Meredith pleads silently, not caring how futile a request that might be, and she lets her daughter's rhythmic breaths lull her into sleep.

…

"Derek. _Derek._ "

He wakes up to the insistent sound of his name, still exhausted.

"Mer … ?"

"Derek, she's not here." Meredith is shaking his shoulder, panic in her voice. " _Viv's not here!_ "

"What?" He sits up, fully awake now, his gaze falling on the clock on the nightstand.

5:12 a.m.

"What do you mean, Viv's not here?"

"I mean she's not here! I checked everywhere!"

"Okay. Let's just …" But his heart is sinking, he doesn't really have any comforting words. Meredith is the one who tried to Viv-proof the apartment; Meredith knows Vivian better. If she can't find her …

He vaults out of bed. "Okay. It's okay, just try to calm down," he says to Meredith, but trying to take his own advice at the same time. He gives her a quick, hard hug. "We'll find her. She can't have gone far. Maybe she woke up and … got confused."

"But we didn't hear – I thought we'd hear it if she got up."

"That doesn't matter now," he says as calmly as he can. "Tell me where you've looked so far."

"Everywhere." Her hands are trembling in his. "Including both terraces. And they're bolted from the top, she'd have to climb on a chair, and I have the chain on the front door."

He helps her scan the apartment again, checking places even a scrawny not-quite-six-year-old would be hard pressed to fit, like the linen closet and the pantry, and even under their bed and hers like they're trying to reassure a child there are no monsters.

And suddenly, he realizes the one place they haven't checked.

"No, Derek!" Meredith calls in a panicked whisper when she sees where he's heading, "don't wake your mother, don't tell her we lost Viv, please … ."

But Derek turns the knob anyway, pushing open the door to the guest room where his mother is sleeping.

And, sure enough, Vivian is curled up under the covers leaning against the bulk of Carolyn's body. One of Derek's mother's arms is wrapped around the little girl and they're both sleeping deeply.

"Look at that."

Meredith sags against him, sighing with relief.

"Once a mom, always a mom, I guess." He presses his lips to the top of her head and she tilts her face up to see him.

"You think we should move her? Your mom did just have surgery."

Derek takes a moment to study the two sleeping figures in the bed, both breathing peacefully, each healing in her own way, before he responds.

"No … let's let them rest."

* * *

 _To be continued. **Pretty please, review and let me know what you think. Four out of five doctors agree, it's the #1 way to get faster updates!**_


	32. fleeting one

**_Thank you, as always, to those of you who have been reviewing this long story, from the ones who are checking in for the first time to the rockstar reviewers who come through every time (you are the glue that holds this site together and I love you guys!). Here's another nice long chapter, and I hope you enjoy it._**

* * *

 _fleeting one  
..._

* * *

Derek attempts sleep after he and Meredith secure Viv's location, but even the peaceful breathing of his wife and daughter don't lull him under. He wanders back to the kitchen instead – it's morning, or almost morning, so he decides to make coffee instead; he's standing in front of a bubbling percolator when his phone buzzes.

And he's halfway through his second cup of coffee, seated at the kitchen table, when the scent of mint toothpaste alerts him to the fact that he has company.

He glances up to see Vivian is standing in the doorway in her rainbow printed pajamas, long hair tangled around her, looking at him.

Toothpaste. So before all of this change to her routine, traveling back and forth out of countries and hospitals and sleeping wherever she could, Vivian must have been a child with a routine that included waking up and immediately brushing her teeth.

"Hi," he says quietly, because _good morning_ doesn't quite feel right.

"Did my dad call?" She starts to approach, then lingers a foot away. "Is he coming to get me?"

 _No change, still don't know – hate to ask but can you hang onto Viv for now?_

 _Of course. For as long as you need._

"He's with your mom," Derek says gently. "So he wants you to keep hanging out with us today."

"He didn't want to talk to me?"

"He did," Derek assures her quickly, "but I told him you were sleeping."

Taking the blame – which seems like a good idea at the time – doesn't seem to help that much.

He watches as Vivian's lips tremble. She looks utterly forlorn; instinctively, he reaches across the gap between them and lifts her onto his lap. He waits for her to rebuff him but she doesn't, maybe too tired or frightened to be standoffish or to remember that, fragile bond or no, she's not particularly fond of him.

She's such a little thing – skinny, her shoulder blades poking him as he holds her tense body carefully with one arm. Close up, her resemblance to Mark is even stronger, sand-colored brows and lashes framing deeply sad eyes. He gets the sense she'll be very pretty one day, when she grows into her looks … but right now her face is all wan misery.

"I want him," Viv whispers into his shirt, so softly he almost doesn't hear her.

"I know." He strokes her hair, careful not to pull the tangled strands. "It's okay," he tells her, even though it's a lie, and as he starts to talk, quietly, he feels her relax very slightly against him.

He keeps talking to her because she seems calmer when he does, about meaningless things like what they might have for breakfast, and whether it's going to be as hot out today as it was yesterday.

Some of the tension runs out of her body, the weight of her head resting against him; he wonders if she's falling back to sleep. He doesn't want to move the amount he'd need to in order to see the time, so he's not sure how many minutes pass before Zola pads into the room, fisting a pink sippy cup and giving Derek an interested look.

" _Vivi's_ here," she pronounces happily, advancing toward the two of them and then stopping to study their posture.

Derek feels Viv tense at having an audience, and he smiles a bit nervously at Zola, trying to decide the best course of action.

"Zo," he begins carefully.

" _My_ daddy," Zola interrupts, firmly, before he can speak; frowning a little, she insinuates herself under her father's free arm.

Immediately, Vivian pulls away from Derek, climbing down from his lap and making a dash for the door.

"Viv, wait –"

But she's already bolted out of the room, Zola looking after her with surprise.

"Hey." Derek scoops her up and sits her on his knee. "You know what, Zozo, I'm your daddy, and I always will be … but Viv is our friend. Right?"

Zola nods at this.

"And her daddy isn't here right now. She was feeling sad and she needed a hug."

Zola looks like she's considering this. "Vivi's sad?"

Derek nods. "How about today, you share me with Viv?"

"Okay. I share. I'm _good_ at sharing," she adds, confidently if not accurately, and then pauses to ask the same question again: "Vivi's sad?"

He nods, stroking one soft cheek. Zola hops off his lap and holds out her hand, and Derek lets her lead him into the other room.

They find Vivian standing by the living room windows, looking out on the rather grey and grimy scene below. The air inside the apartment is mechanically cool but you can practically see steam rising off the sidewalks below. There's something forlorn about the churning greyish river beyond.

Zola puts up one small finger. "Wait," she says, and jogs off presumably to find something.

"I want my dad," Viv says without turning around when Derek approaches, apparently hearing his footsteps.

"I know. You're going to see him soon, Viv." Carefully, Derek rests his hands on her shoulders. "Zola wants to play with you. Why don't we get some breakfast, and then you can-"

"No thank you," she says. She turns around, his hands falling away, and he can see that her lips are trembling.

Derek sighs. He doesn't say anything – there's nothing to say; he just strokes the top of her head. After a moment, Viv turns back to the window. Derek stays there, next to her, until he hears Zola's footsteps. His daughter is trotting toward them holding a large stuffed caterpillar in vivid shades of red and green.

"Here," Zola says, thrusting the plush animal at Viv. "Hug it. It's gonna be a butterfly."

Vivian hesitates for a moment, then extends her arms, and Zola hands over the caterpillar.

"Hug it _nice_ ," Zola instructs, and Viv complies.

Derek scoops his daughter up. "Good sharing," he says softly, dropping a kiss on her head, and she beams up at him, then wriggles to get down.

When she's back on the floor, Zola reaches up to pat Viv's arm. "Don't be sad, Vivi," she suggests brightly.

If only it were that easy.

…

He takes both girls with him to get breakfast. Zola's passionate declaration that she _needs_ a bagel helps convince Viv to go with them.

"Mommy's sleeping," Zola informs Derek twice before they're even at the elevators.

"That's right, but we're awake." Derek tugs playfully on her hand. "And only awake people go get bagels."

Zola seems pleased with this turn of logic. Viv – who dressed herself with no assistance; she's either strikingly independent or Derek is used to a toddler – walks next to him without protest, though she ignores his proffered hand.

Zola alternatively skips and jogs, Derek deciding that both girls – and fine, he too – could use a little exercise. They walk past the bagel place they've been frequenting, a few long blocks west. Vivian must notice they're walking in the direction of her neighborhood, but she doesn't say anything.

The shop they select has large smoked fish in the window and smells of heavenly yeast when they push open the door. It's mercifully cool in there, even with the heat rising from the vats of boiling water and ovens just beyond the counter.

" _Yum_ ," Zola says reverentially; his daughter seems to have converted to full-on New Yorker when it comes to bagels. He hopes she's not too disappointed when he takes her back to Seattle.

Derek divides his time between scanning the prepared food – ordering cut fruit salad even knowing how his frugal mother will frown at the jacked-up per-pound prices – and trying to prevent Zola from kissing the glass display case.

The man behind the counter doesn't seem to mind Zola's antics; he gives each of the girls a small rainbow-sprinkled cookie. Vivian thanks him politely, Zola volubly, and Derek doesn't have the heart to make them wait until later to eat their treats. At any rate, he supposes Vivian eating anything is a net positive.

Zola shows Viv her partially chewed cookie on their way out the door; Derek swallows the gentle chiding he planned when he sees Viv smile at her younger friend's silliness.

Derek holds a sack of breakfast foods in one hand and Zola with the other as they make their way down the block; he's just about to warn Viv to stay close when –

"Vivian!"

All three of them stop when they hear a female voice calling her name.

It's a woman wearing expensive-looking exercise gear, phone in hand, leading a younger woman who's pushing a stroller and wrangling two little girls at the same time, one of whom appears to be around Vivian's age.

"Viv, it's been _forever._ "

The woman speaks with a lot of italics; she has copious highlighted hair and moves her face in a manner Derek associates with a certain sort of upper east side woman he hasn't seen in a long time. Fleetingly, he realizes Mark would know exactly what she'd had done to her face.

"I've emailed your mother but I haven't heard _anything_ ," the woman continues. "And Wanda," she gestures toward the other woman, who's produced a tissue to wipe the smallest child's nose, "Wanda said she was texting your nanny. Where _is_ Needa, she's usually far more responsive." The woman pauses to glance at Derek. "Don't tell me you have a _manny_ now?" She sounds disapproving.

Derek files the word away for later, opening his mouth to say – what? Something, but he never gets the opportunity.

"Sutton was _so_ disappointed you couldn't come to her party," the woman continues.

If Sutton is the blonde-ponytailed girl by her side smiling shyly in Viv's direction, then Derek isn't sure how she got a word in to tell her mother she was disappointed.

The woman directs her next stream of words to Derek. "Of course my husband is in Hong Kong this week and I was _supposed_ to be out east with these three, but I needed to train the new nanny," she finishes. " _Anyway_ , I assumed you were away but …"

She stops talking for a moment, and Derek is pretty sure he can see concern flash across her frozen features. "Vivian, where have you _been_ , sweetheart?" She reaches out to touch Viv's face, or hair, Derek isn't sure, but the little girl takes a step back to avoid it, bumping into his legs. He finds himself resting a hand on her shoulder.

There's a merciful break in the woman's monologue; Derek takes advantage of it to jump in. "I'm so sorry, but we really have to run," he says quickly, hefting the sack of bagels under his arm so he can take Viv's shoulder with one of his hands and Zola's little hand in the other.

"Bye bye!" Zola calls cheerfully as he guides both girls across the street thanks to a mercifully timed walk sign.

Derek hears the woman's whispered comment as they walk away: _that was weird_ , she says.

He finds his face flushing, hoping that Vivian didn't overhear. How recently was it that he was in her position, finding it _weird_ that the Sloans were so secretive, so private about their family's troubles?

Now, from this end, with Vivian in his charge however temporarily, he feels embarrassed about his previous reactions. That … and protective.

…

"Are you sure I can't get you anything else?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Sit down," Carolyn instructs her firmly. "You're carrying my grandchild, you know."

Meredith smiles slightly. "I don't sit down very much when Zola's around."

"Oh, I know. So you take advantage of the quiet times." Carolyn pats the kitchen table, waiting for Meredith to sit across from her. She does, with her steaming cup of decaf, and Carolyn watches her thoughtfully for a moment, dipping the teabag in and out of her mug.

Meredith studies her mother-in-law.

 _Mother-in-law._ The term feels so weighty for someone she's just getting to know.

Before she can muse in any detail on this contradiction, she hears pounding footsteps from the hallway and then the jingling of keys

"They're back." Meredith smiles, and is then all but tackled by a flying blur.

"Mommy!"

"Zozo," Meredith scoops her daughter onto her lap. "Looks like you started your breakfast early." She brushes a stray rainbow sprinkle from Zola's soft cheek and is rewarded with a grin.

"Me and Vivi got cookies." Zola reports, bouncing on her lap. "Not Daddy," she adds.

"No?"

"No," Derek confirms, leaning over to kiss her with lips that taste of strong coffee. "Apparently bagel store owners don't find me as charming as these two."

He gestures toward Zola and Vivian, who is washing her hands at the kitchen sink without being instructed.

"Hey, Viv." Meredith smiles at her, not surprised when the little girl hangs back. She's also not surprised that her long hair looks much the same as it did when she arrived from the hospital in the middle of the night. Derek wouldn't be likely to push it, and she remembers Vivian's reaction when she offered to put her hair up before she and Zola bathed together. Whether it's a reaction to the chaos around her, related specifically to her mother's absence, or caused by something else entirely, Meredith isn't sure.

She just knows that it doesn't seem very important compared to everything else that's happening.

So she pats the kitchen chair next to her, encouraging Viv to sit.

Zola distracts everyone then by diving into her bagel with the enthusiasm of a child who hasn't seen food in a while.

One of her little hands darts out and snatches a round red grape from Viv's plate.

"Hey." Meredith takes her hand gently. "Ask first, Zo. Don't just grab."

Zola draws a deep breath that suggests she's about to disagree.

"It's okay," Viv says in her gravelly little voice. "She can have it."

"That's very nice of you, Viv, thank you," Meredith says, "but it's still nice to ask first. Right, Zozo?"

Zola, who is busy crunching the grape in her sharp little teeth, doesn't answer.

Derek uses the serving spoon to fish another grape out of the bowl of cut fruit and deliver it to Viv, then hands another one to Zola.

"That one's yours, sticky fingers." He pokes her gently in the ribs and she giggles.

Viv ignores the grape, but she does eat a slice of melon and not quite a quarter of one of her bagel halves.

Zola pushes her plate away triumphantly when she finishes eating. "Vivi, play with me," she demands.

Viv glances at Meredith. "May I be excused?"

Meredith blinks at the question. Based on Derek's expression, he's equally surprised. It might be because they're currently sharing possession of a squirming toddler with fruit-sticky hands and a significant portion of cream cheese on her little pink shirt, or the casual atmosphere of the kitchen.

"Yes, you may," Meredith says, recovering quickly. "If you're finished. Zola can wait if you want to eat some more."

"No, I _can't wait_ ," Zola intercedes desperately, struggling to get down from Meredith's lap.

"You can at least wait until you're clean." Derek scoops her up and sits her on the kitchen counter to wipe her face and hands, and finally gives up and just strips off her messy shirt – then, predictably, ends up chasing her through the apartment in an attempt to re-dress her.

Vivian climbs down from her chair and carries her paper plate, napkin, and juice glass to the counter.

"Meredith …"

"Yeah?"

"Will you tell me if my dad calls?"

"Of course." Meredith smiles as reassuringly as she can.

…

It's fate, or at least merciful, that he's alone in the kitchen when Mark does call. And that Meredith wanders into the kitchen to get Zola a sippy cup of water, so Derek can take her aside and whisper what he's learned, and she can wrap her arms around him and they can take a moment to breathe together. A silent moment where they agree that Viv doesn't need to know.

The girls are settled in the living room now, Viv predictably patient with Zola's increasingly specific requests about how to arrange the ever-growing pile of plastic foods as they play store, before gesturing for Meredith to speak privately with him.

His mother is resting in her room – she'd prefer to stay on the couch, watching the children play, so she must have been tired.

Derek has been catching occasional amusing bits of conversation, touched by the breathy appreciation in Zola's tone and the generosity in Viv's.

In the confines of that room, they can keep their voices down while still keeping an eye on the girls. And they can speak in the kind of hushed whispers you use when someone is sick, bits of phrasing, clauses with missing information.

 _But they're still not sure why –_

 _And the baby is still –_

 _They didn't have to intubate until –_

"Clothes," Derek says, because it's a word and it's simple and it's something they can do. In the fluster of the moment he offered to bring Mark clean clothes; he knows he hasn't left Addison's side and has no intention to do so. And he left in the middle of the night without preparations to virtually move into the ICU.

Meredith nods reassuringly.

"Mommy, I _need_ you," Zola calls loudly from the living room; Meredith pauses to drop a kiss on his lips before she returns to the living room to keep an eye on the girls.

Clothes. Something simple, practical, and easy to do.

Except it's not, not really, because Mark's house key is dangling from a metal hook in Derek's temporary kitchen and Mark's daughter is sitting cross-legged on the parquet floor of Derek's temporary living room playing store with Derek's daughter.

And Derek is swirling with indecision about how to handle what should be a simple, practical, easy task: should he take Vivian with him?

He can see both sides.

If Mark can leave Addison long enough to collect his change of clothes, he'll see Derek, it seems, which means he could briefly see Vivian too. Which could either make things better or worse. If Viv finds out Derek saw her father without her … he can't imagine she'll be willing to trust him.

Then again, what about the clothes themselves? Should he bring Viv with him to the townhouse? If he doesn't bring her to the townhouse, but he brings her to the hospital with him, she'll know he got her father's clothes from somewhere. Will she feel betrayed that she didn't get a chance to visit her own home? Or will seeing it again make it harder for her to leave?

The possibilities float through his mind, filtering pros and cons and the weights of each, as he tries to figure out which choices will do the least damage.

It's never been clearer to him how hard it must have been for Mark all this time to make these decisions. Choices Derek noted neutrally or even disapprovingly – how much time Viv spent at the hospital, the things they told and didn't tell her – suddenly seem terribly difficult. Weighty.

Potentially dangerous.

What can he do?

Only try to pick the least worst option.

Only try to keep them all going, one more day.

…

Viv is quiet down to the lobby, walking at his side but inching away when he offers his hand. She kicks a little at the curb, then glances up at him. "Can we walk there?"

"Let's take a taxi," Derek says. It's hot, and he's a little worried about Mark's timing.

Viv hails the cab herself, giving the driver her address and then fiddling with the controls on the blaring TV screen, pushing the volume higher, and then lower. Derek told her they were picking some things up from the house for Mark, but nothing about her mother's condition. That's not his place, he tells himself.

As the cab rolls through traffic, they watch a commercial for a recently opened Broadway show, Viv staring transfixed at the colorful costumes, and then the screen changes to muted pinks. A woman's face fills the screen, blonde, in a white lab coat. " _At Memorial-St. Catherine's, we do more than treat your cancer. We comprehensively_ –"

"Let's turn it off." Derek reaches over to press the button to mute it, at least, but he seems to be making it louder.

" _Your emotional and spiritual well-being are our primary concerns here at the premiere cancer center, where you will find-"_

A woman on the screen holds a child in the air, then embraces it; an older man smiles beatifically. Derek stabs at the screen, not wanting Vivian to hear any more than she needs to.

Finally, frustrated, he directs his request to the driver – loudly. "Can you just turn the damn TV off?"

Viv flinches at his tone and he regrets it immediately. He apologizes as the driver mutes the television from the front seat.

"Why are you mad?"

"I'm not mad, Viv, I'm sorry, I was just frustrated that I couldn't figure out how to turn off the TV."

"Oh." Vivian considers this. "My dad says TV in cabs is barbaric."

"I agree with your dad." Derek smiles at her. "You know, when we were your age, cabs were really different."

"With checkers and the stool things," she says. "I know. My mom told me."

…

Viv is quiet for the rest of the short ride to her family's home, pushing ahead of him once he's opened the door; he follows her into the large front hall. She's standing in the entryway when he gets there. It's the same as it was in the middle of last night except daylight is pouring wide strips of dusty gold across the floorboards. It's still dim, but he can see more, and it's that same odd combination of warm and drafty that he remembers.

Trying to keep them focused, he turns to Vivian.

"Can you be my helper … and we can find some clothes for your dad?"

Viv nods. She leads him upstairs, down the hall, past the room he remembers is hers.

There are so many doors.

So many rooms.

For three people! But then Amy lived with them at some point, and maybe does again now. He tries to recall the timing. Amy went back to New York with them after Clara's disastrous wedding. Didn't she? Or she was living there before?

Traversing the hall slowly with Viv, he's reminded just how large the house is. It's an extra half width over the typical footprint in a city where space is at a premium – and there are still two other floors he hasn't seen.

Viv pauses at the foot of another set of stairs, but doesn't ascend them.

Feeling a little guilty for asking questions of Vivian, he nonetheless lets his curiosity win. "What's upstairs?"

She follows his gaze to the staircase.

"I'm not supposed to go up there," she says quickly.

He nods. "How come?"

She shrugs.

"Does anyone live up there?"

"Amy used to."

"Where does she live now? I mean, where does she sleep, when she's here?"

"In a guest room."

Viv doesn't seem bothered by his questions, and he's not sure why he has an uncertain feeling. He just does. He finds himself moving a little closer to the staircase.

"No!" Viv grabs his hand.

He's surprised, turning to her. "What's wrong?"

"If you go up there … you'll get in trouble."

Her little face is anxious.

"Okay. I won't go up there," he reassures her, and she looks relieved.

Frankly … the huge, empty house is starting to give him the creeps. He's grateful when Viv points him to the master bedroom, which has its own picture-lined foyer leading to the main part of the room.

He stops at one of the pictures, in a simple copper frame. In shades of gold and blue, it's Mark, Addison, and a toddler Vivian dressed up and smiling on the beach.

He recognizes it immediately as a shot from his niece Clara's wedding in California.

Based on the quality of the picture, it's one of the professional photographer's candids – and it's charmingly candid indeed, Viv's mouth open with either a yawn or a laugh, head full of tousled blonde curls, sand on the hem of her pink dress, a shell clutched in her small fingers. Addison is holding a glass of champagne in one hand, the other raised to Viv's cheek, maybe brushing back her hair, and Mark is smiling down at both of them.

They look more relaxed than Derek remembers anyone looking at that wedding. He finds himself rather sad to think perhaps it's because they thought they were alone, and didn't realize anyone was capturing the moment.

But someone did capture it, and Clara or Liz must have sent them the picture, after the wedding's disastrous end.

Derek feels … _something_ … about their choosing to display a picture from that chaotic night. A little confused, maybe a little touched.

A part of him wonders if the night holds some meaning for them beyond the wedding, the way it does for him; that night, in a simple white hotel room with windows thrown open to the sea, he asked Meredith to marry him. And she said yes.

He studies the framed picture again as if looking for clues. Addison is holding a half-filled glass of champagne; with her body photographed from the side, her profile is lean, even skinny – which makes sense considering his understanding of the timing involved in her later pregnancies. She wasn't pregnant at the wedding, and if the champagne is any indication, they weren't trying either.

The wedding was Viv's first cross-country flight, he remembers Mark telling him that. She's certainly a well-traveled child now, but based on what Mark has told him the majority of the family's time and considerable financial resources have been spent, in recent years, on fertility treatments, IVF, and now travel to seek alternative treatments.

Was the California wedding the last trip they took as a family before things changed for them?

He pushes the thought of his head to follow Viv into the main part of the bedroom, trying to avoid the thought that it feels rather like a crime scene, with things scattered about in a way he wouldn't expect Addison to permit on an ordinary morning. The bed is rumpled, unmade, and there are a few bits of clothing tossed over a chaise, one sock on the Persian rug near an antique armoire.

It's a room someone left in haste.

"I have to use the bathroom," Viv says abruptly.

He nods, and she disappears into a door he didn't notice on the other side of the room.

And he's left alone in the large master bedroom.

The hasty, even tragic, circumstances of the couple's departure from this room aside, there's something particularly strange, unusual even, about seeing the marital bedroom of the two people he used to know best in the world.

He doesn't know them anymore, not really, even as he's coming to know the child they raised.

He takes a few steps across the hardwood floor. There's a sizable brass mirror over a mahogany dresser that he supposes, from the few items on top of it, is Mark's. He notices a faded polaroid tucked into the side of the mirror.

A _polaroid._

He feels inescapably old just saying the world and older once he sees the picture.

It's Addison, a version of her he hasn't thought of in years. She's in medical school, sitting at a desk covered in messy piles of papers. One hand is raised as if to say, _don't photograph me,_ but she's also laughing.

She's young.

God, she's young. He can't believe any of them was ever that young, much less that the three of them knew each other at that age. And he's surprised to see some of Vivian, who's only resembled her father to him before, in Addison's youthful face.

That Addison, the faded one of twenty years ago – nearly twenty-five now - is wearing a button down oxford shirt; he can't see her below the waist, but he knows it will be sweatpants – navy, she preferred navy, and those tan lace-up boots with blue rubber toes. And big, slouchy socks, the kind he never sees around anymore. That was her standard studying outfit, sometimes with a men's tie as a headband.

Addison got a Polaroid camera for Christmas their first year, he recalls, so this picture was probably taken that winter before they tired of using it, once it stopped being fun to try to snap unsuspecting photos of each other and then blow of them to marvel at how quickly they developed.

Vivian emerges from the en-suite bathroom then and Derek smiles at her, noticing she looks a little pale – even for her.

"You okay?"

It's a silly question, considering, but she nods.

"Okay. Good." He pauses. "Do you know where your dad keeps his shirts?"

Viv considers the question, then points toward what must be a closet door. All in all, the bedroom is bigger than his first apartment in Manhattan, and the closet is no exception once he walks in. He finds a few necessities and a leather carryall to store them.

He notices Vivian standing in the open doorway of the closet looking pensive; it's probably time to go.

"I think we have everything we need," he tells her carefully. "Why don't we –"

"What about my mom?"

He pauses, wondering if he's accidentally given something away. "What do you mean?"

"We need stuff for my mom too," Viv says. "Clothes."

There's something in the stubborn set of her little face that suggests she's waiting for Derek to contradict her.

What can he say? That her mother is wearing a hospital gown right now, and it's unlikely a change of clothes is anywhere near imminent?

"Okay … sure," he says uneasily, once again with no idea whether he's making the least worst choice, or something worse. He stands helpless while Vivian moves in and out of a different closet, pulling out the drawers with some effort, until she sets a summery-looking printed dress on the bed along with a cardigan and some underthings.

Hoping it doesn't make it worse for Mark, Derek adds the new items to the carryall, and then he and Viv look together at the rumpled bed.

Slowly, Viv's little hand reaches out to touch the bedclothes, tugging at them.

For a moment Derek wonders if she's going to climb into her parents' bed – the thought is terribly sad, and he has no idea whether it would be more helpful or harmless to permit her to do so … but all she does is take hold of the duvet and tug a little, then turn to Derek.

"Can you help me?"

He nods before he understands what she's asking.

"I need to make the bed," she explains, "but it's like … " and her hands spread wide to indicate the difficulty of dealing with the covers on a king-sized bed.

"Oh. Of course."

Automatically, he moves to the other side of the bed to help straighten out the covers.

As he's fluffing the duvet on one side of the bed – presumably Addison's, based on the delicate jewelry dish – he notices a stream of sunlight hitting an empty patch on the mahogany surface of the nightstand night table. It's a darker patch, like something small and square usually rests there, protecting the surface of the wood from sunlight.

Viv slaps the duvet a few more times on her side, fluffing it up, then stands back to observe their work.

"Good job," Derek tells her. _You'd never know what happened here._

Viv glances up at him. "My mom always makes the bed," she tells him. "She says if you start the day by making the bed..."

"... then you'll do good things all day." Derek finishes along with her automatically.

Viv's eyes widen. "How did you know that?"

 _Because your mother got that from my mother. That's what my mom used to say, when we were kids. And … later, too._

He finds himself touched that Addison passed on such a recognizable Carolyn-ism to her own child. What was it Addison said about Viv when they first spoke – telling him her full name?

 _Vivian Adele_ , _named after two of the only three women who ever mothered me without commanding a salary_ , that's what Addison said. _The third one is recovering down the hall._

Addison would have no way of knowing her daughter finally found sleep in Derek's mother's arms last night. Not when she herself hasn't woken up.

Yet here they are, joining the cycle.

Vivian, the daughter of a seemingly motherless Addison here, in her parents' bedroom with Derek, whose mother has unknowingly passed her particular brand of homespun maternal wisdom all the way from the modest clapboard house in decidedly non-elegant central Connecticut to this landmarked townhouse on the upper east side.

Where Derek is standing, now, with the daughter of his ex-wife and ex-best-friend. Standing here by choice, even though he walked away from this city and those people with clear eyes more than six years ago.

Perhaps the cycle was never broken.

What was it his mother used to say?

 _Life is long._ That's what she used to say.

Except sometimes … it's just too damned short.

* * *

 _ **To be continued. (Mandyg67, your review on the last chapter was prescient.) Reading? Enjoying? I should be in bed, so pretty please review and tell me it was worth it to stay up and share this chapter with all of y'all. And thank you again, times infinity. xoxo**_


	33. hard believer

_**A/N: Hello, hello. Thank you for waiting patiently for this next chapter. Truthfully, guys, it seemed like interest in this story was waning based on response to the last chapter - I have a bunch of WIPs, so I tend to divide my time among them based on a combination of inspiration and validation. If you're still interested and still reading, please talk to me; that's the only meter I have. I hope you enjoy the chapter.**_

* * *

..  
 _hard believer  
.._

* * *

Mark meets them on the fourth floor of Schuy Hill. Another hospital, another cafeteria, this one not quite as pink and … _warm_ as MSC's, but otherwise the same.

How many hospital cafeterias has he been to with Mark now?

Viv runs to her father as soon as she sees him; Mark picks her up and holds her in his arms for long moments without saying anything. When he draws back and sets her on her feet Derek sees his eyes are wet.

"Thank you so much," he says hoarsely to Derek, who nods.

Mark seems somewhat frozen, one hand resting on the top of Vivian's head; Derek leads both of them to a small, round table.

Mark settles in a blue and beige institutional-looking chair – it seems too small for him; chairs always seem too small for Mark, and draws his daughter between his knees.

"Are you being good for Derek and Meredith?"

Viv nods, glancing uncertainly at Derek.

"She's been great. We're glad to have her." A little uncomfortable, Derek wonders if that sounds too enthusiastic under the circumstances. Then Viv gives him a half smile, and he decides it was just right.

Viv turns to her father. "Is Mommy better yet? Can I see her now?"

Mark holds Vivian's face between his palms. He clears his throat a little. "Mommy is trying really hard to get stronger so she can see you," he says.

Viv looks like she wants to protest when he abruptly changes the subject.

"Tell me about your day," he instructs his daughter.

Viv glances from Mark to Derek. "We had bagels," she says after a moment.

"Good. This guy's been away from the city for a while," he tells Vivian seriously, gesturing toward Derek, "and he needs a reminder of what real food tastes like."

She doesn't crack a smile. "And we saw Sutton," she says.

"Oh yeah?" Mark looks a little surprised. "Was her mom with her?"

Vivian nods.

"Sorry to hear it." Mark glances at Derek. "The mom's a trip, huh? Nice kid, though. Quiet – well, you can probably see why." He turns back to Vivian, studying her face. "You haven't hung out with her a while, baby, you want me to see if –"

"No," Viv says immediately.

"Vivi – "

"She's leaving," Viv says. "They were just here for … I don't know. But they're leaving again." She glances at Derek, a little unexpectedly – presumably for support.

"They did say that they were leaving," Derek confirms.

Viv nods at her father.

"Gotcha," Mark says. "Maybe when they're back in town."

Vivian doesn't respond. Mark, too, is quiet for a moment, holding his daughter against him, then pushes her back gently by her small shoulders.

"Hey, Vivi … can you do me a favor?"

And Mark sends her for a bottle of water and a snack, it's so transparent that Derek is certain even not-six-yet Viv can see through it, but she goes anyway, with a crisp twenty dollar bill in one of her little hands.

"She's still intubated," Mark says quietly as soon as Vivian is out of earshot, dragging a hand across his eyes. "I don't want Viv to see her like that, I don't think Addison would want – " He stops talking. "Obviously, if it came down to … but we're not there yet, not … and we didn't talk -."

He hasn't finished any of the sentences he's started but it's enough for Derek to understand. No need to traumatize Vivian with the sight of her intubated mother hooked up to machines that are breathing for her unless she needs to say goodbye.

Mark's eyes are bleak, and then he drops his gaze to the table.

"I don't want Vivian to go through this," he mutters.

 _You're going through it too,_ that's what Derek thinks, immediately, especially when Mark is so clearly miserable, but he supposes the instinct to protect Vivian from it first is … well, it's parental.

"Mark," he starts carefully, not really sure where he's going, but his old friend interrupts.

"I wouldn't go with her," Mark says without preamble, as if they've been in the middle of a different conversation. Words tumble out as if he's been waiting to say them – maybe he has. "I didn't want to implant the embryo. We fought, I … said things. We both said things. I told her I could take her to court over the embryo, that's what I said, and it was stupid – because she started the next cycle without even telling me."

Derek is somewhat surprised, even if he suspected something like this might be coming; he schools his face into neutral.

"I didn't go with her for the implantation," Mark says.

It's the same tone Derek has heard from him before – some bravado, a lot of shame – almost as if he's testing Derek's reaction. He just nods.

"That's where they …" Mark looks miserable. "That's where they found the … she texted me and asked me come and I didn't. She didn't tell me why," he said hastily, "she just texted and … but I didn't go … ."

He stops talking and stares at his folded hands. His pain is palpable under the sticky fluorescent lights. Derek is starting to realize the complicated interrelations of the four members of Mark's family, that it maybe goes even deeper than he thought. He knew Mark didn't really want to try again; he mentioned it when he first exposed Addison's pregnancy, and her illness.

But if Mark was already ambivalent about – even steadfastly against – another pregnancy, and then –

"I was sick of it," Mark says quietly, glancing up toward the food line quickly, presumably in search of Viv, and then dropping his head into his hands again. "Sick of the hormones and the cycles and her disappointment when they didn't implant and the side effects and … and then … it was so hard on her, with Julian, and I supported her trying again one more time but … after Faith …"

"We have a kid already," he says, his tone desperate, "why couldn't we just focus on the kid we have?"

It's the peculiar nature of the English language that _we_ can mean _you and I_ and it can also mean _she and I,_ so Derek has no real way to know whether Mark is narrating his feelings or, in his own way, speaking directly to Addison.

So he just nods sympathetically, even though it doesn't feel like enough.

But apparently Mark isn't finished.

"And then – "

But he stops abruptly as Vivian approaches.

She's holding a bottle of water and a granola bar and a fistful of change that Mark pretends to wrestle away from her, drawing the faintest of smiles. He holds her on his lap, eyes looking lost and troubled over her head, while she makes very little headway on the granola bar and then crumples the wrapper.

She leans back to look at her father. "Is Mommy …"

"She's still not ready for you to see her, Vivi. She's trying." The pain in Mark's eyes is so vivid there's no way his daughter can miss it.

"But why can't I see her now?" Vivian asks plaintively. "What if I'm really quiet?"

"You just can't, baby, I'm sorry. Not yet."

Vivian pauses and Derek braces himself for protest, even a tantrum. She's quiet for a moment.

"Daddy … did _you_ see her?" Viv asks her father finally.

"Yeah, baby. I saw her."

"And you're gonna see her again? After this, I mean?"

Mark nods.

"Good," Viv says, leaning against him, her thumb drifting toward her mouth. "I don't want Mommy to be by herself."

…

Derek realizes too late – in the icily air-conditioned lobby, thick with the smells of food and people and grief – that he didn't warn Mark that Vivian packed Addison's clothes along with Mark's own. Kicking himself a little, he guides Vivian out of the hospital. She lets him take her hand and lead her down the busy sidewalk, but she doesn't look at him.

When he glances down he sees tears in her eyes; she's chewing on her lower lip with a look of concentration.

"Hey." He squeezes her hand lightly, feeling inadequate to the turmoil. "It's okay to feel sad."

She rubs her eyes with her balled up fist and doesn't answer.

He pauses on the curb, rethinking hailing a cab, and looks down at Vivian.

"You want to walk a little before we go back?"

She nods.

He buys her ice cream – feeling a responsibility to get some calories into her, whatever their quality – and they walk hand-in-hand all the long blocks between Schuy Hill and the river. It's hot and muggy but the air is still moving, a little, and more so by the water.

A garbage barge is making its slow way along the river; Viv is standing on tiptoe to see over the guardrail.

If you told him a month ago – hell, a week and a half ago – he'd be out alone with Mark and Addison's daughter, he would have thought it was nuts.

Somehow … now? It seems normal.

He studies the small girl. She looks like Mark, he knows, but then again he can't really summon an image of Mark at that age, not without an image of Derek himself, too. They were inseparable and Mark was woven into the fabric of the Shepherd family with remarkable speed.

And of course he didn't know Addison at that age, though from the snippets he picked up over the years, he came to picture a rather lonely child who depended on nannies for affection and her brother for attention. As a result, he wasn't unsympathetic, over to the years, to her relentless craving for validation – it was almost too textbook after her upbringing.

Mark, though. His parents may have met few of his needs but he had Derek's family, Derek's parents. Warmth, and love. Did that make up for it?

Or did that hole in him from his own parents never heal, and he and Addison were drawn together because of it, their damage intertwining?

Derek glances down at Vivian, who's still watching the river with mute interest. All of the chaos of her mother's illness and the previous fertility struggles aside, he has no doubt that Vivian is a loved child. He has only to see her with Zola, her patience and her warmth, to learn a reflection of the tenderness she must have felt from her own parents at that age.

She looks up at him briefly, and on instinct, he points out at the river to the barge still lumbering along the grey water.

"You know what that is?"

She tells him.

He wonders for a moment what it is, this universal process of directing children to identify things. It's part of the learning marathon, he supposes. He recalls more than once being on the subway or in a waiting room with a parent and child speaking a tongue he couldn't decipher, but amused by how clearly they were acting out the same dialogue he did, with his nieces and nephews and now with his child:

 _What's this?_

 _Who's this?_

 _What color is this?_

 _What does the …_

That's another. Up and down Manhattan right now, Derek knows, babies and toddlers far more likely to encounter a rat than anything with hooves are being drilled on the sounds barnyard animals make.

Whether it's pure instinct or something primal, some desire to teach your children how to categorize things … he doesn't know. _Hot_ , they tell Zola when she approaches the stove, _don't touch._ She can sing all of Old MacDonald with the appropriate animal sounds. Is that enough? Is there any way to give your child enough of you?

It depends, he supposes, on how long you have them.

He looks down at Vivian's sandy-blonde head. Her messy hair is blowing around her in the hot breeze.

He wanted children. Before Addison did. And he listened, when she told him she wasn't ready. He understood – with four sisters and a widowed mother, he was open to understanding that the issues were different between the sexes. And so they waited.

He hears Mark's words. _I didn't want to try again._

Vivian glances up at him, uncertainty in her blue eyes.

So he falls back again on the old standby. Maybe that's why it's universal – distraction.

"Viv … do you know what that is?" Derek points across the river.

A half-smile curves her little mouth. "Queens," she says, and when Derek offers her his hand to slap in victory for her correct answer she actually takes him up on it.

Viv is quiet for the rest of the walk back. It's a long trip for little legs, but then again he's certain this city child does plenty of walking. Despite her nocturnal movements, it does seem she had a decent night's sleep.

In the lobby he glances down to see her face is pale; she complains of a stomachache.

"Too much ice cream?"

She shrugs.

…

"Hey." Meredith pulls open the door. "How –" She glances down at Viv, then back at Derek. "Is she sick?"

"Stomach ache," Derek rests a hand on Viv's bony little shoulder. "How's Mom?"

"Resting. I practically had to wrestle with her to keep her from doing the dishes. And don't even get me started on mopping the floor."

Derek smiles at this. "She likes to be busy."

"I get that. I hope she also likes not popping her stitches."

Derek pauses to scoop up Zola, who's bolted into the room and greeted both Derek and Viv with enthusiasm so voluble it suggests she hasn't seen them in months.

"Viv? How are you feeling, honey?" Meredith studies her wan little face. It's difficult to gauge whether whatever's going on is physical or emotional, and she's never exactly seen Vivian looking like the picture of health. And then there's the heat.

Viv just shrugs.

Meredith smiles at her. "Why don't you cool off a little and see if that helps?"

She sets both girls up on the couch with a movie, brings Viv a plastic cup of ginger ale and then, when Zola howls for the same, puts about an inch in her sippy cup and fills the rest with water.

Derek is standing in the kitchen doorway, watching; she joins him.

"You think she's sick?" he asks quietly.

"I'm not sure. Maybe just worn out."

"If she's sick," Derek says tentatively, "we should probably keep her away from my mother."

A good point – and one she hadn't considered.

"How did she seem before?"

Derek pauses, looking into the living room where the girls are peacefully propped next to each other, watching the screen, then taking Meredith's arm and moving both of them into the kitchen.

"It's, uh, it's not going so well," he says quietly. "At the hospital," he adds, although she knows exactly what he means.

She lets out a breath – of disappointment, concern – half of her would say she was waiting until they were alone to ask how Addison was doing, but the other half would admit she was hoping not to ask because the answer was so likely to be upsetting.

"She's still intubated," he says, keeping his tone low, "and it's not clear what caused the problem in the first place."

"So no progress."

"No progress." He sighs.

"And the baby …"

"… is holding up."

He shakes his head slightly. Meredith closes her eyes, just for a moment, imagining what it would be like to be –

"Mer."

She opens her eyes.

"Don't," he says softly. "I want to be honest with you and … but I can't if I'm worried it's going to upset you."

"Then don't worry so much," she says, trying to keep her tone light.

He rests a hand on the swell of her belly. " _That_ is easier said than done."

"Derek…"

But she doesn't want to argue, and she doesn't pursue it. She leans into him instead, drawing comfort from his closeness before his blackberry buzzes and she returns to the living room to check on the girls.

Zola shimmies down from the chair as she sees her mother approach. "Mommy, I have to show you something," she warns Meredith, and darts into the other room.

Bracing herself, Meredith sits down next to Viv, who has her little face propped on one fist, watching the screen with glazed eyes.

"How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Viv says after a long pause. "I wish I could go home, though," she says faintly.

Meredith puts an arm around her. "I wish you could too," she says, "because I know you want to … but we would miss you here."

Zola returns empty-handed and climbs up onto the seat to join them, patting Viv's arm in a friendly manner and then glancing up at Meredith.

"Zozo, did you want to show me something?" Meredith prompts gently.

Zola shakes her head. "You're silly, Mommy," she says bluntly, then turns back to Viv. "Let's play store," she suggests.

"Zola, sweetie, I think maybe Viv needs to rest. She's not feeling so great right now."

"I can play," Viv says in a small voice.

"You can?" Meredith smiles at her. "Okay, then. Nothing too crazy."

Zola's eyes widen. "Mommy," she says suddenly, urgently, pointing to Meredith's belly, "what's baby's name?" And she points to Meredith's belly.

They've had this exchange most mornings, but Zola asks the question with the same sense of brand-newness each time. "He doesn't have a name yet, sweetie," Meredith reminds her. "We still have to choose one for him."

" _Vivi's_ baby's name," Zola demands, switching it up.

Meredith glances at Viv, a little concerned but also wanting to wait to see what she has to say before she intervenes.

"Isaac," Vivian says softly. "His name is Isaac."

"Ooh," Zola says with appreciation. "That's a _nice_ name." She pauses. " _My_ baby's name is Princess Jasmine," she tells Viv in a tone of reverence, pointing toward Meredith's midsection with a flourish.

Viv's little brow furrows. "But your baby's a boy," she says.

"Yeah, a boy," Zola confirms, clambering up to her knees. "You like my baby's name, Vivi?"

"It's a pretty name," Viv tells her and Zola beams.

Meredith rests a hand on her belly, trying to picture their son.

 _Princess Jasmine Grey-Shepherd._

It does have a nice ring.

…

"What are you smiling about?" Derek settles next to her on the now-empty loveseat, Vivian and Zola having abandoned it for the other side of the room and one of Zola's multilayered games of store.

"Your son's name," Meredith says, accepting the cup of decaf Derek hands her, offering him a quick kiss of thanks.

"Oh, yeah? You settled on one?"

"Your daughter did, actually."

" _My_ daughter. Must be some name." Derek swallows coffee, enjoying the sparkle in his wife's eyes.

"Oh, it is. But I think I'll let her tell you." She leans back against him. "They're sweet together," she says after a moment.

Derek nods, getting a partial mouthful of her hair as he does; he fists the rest of it out the way carefully before wrapping an arm around her waist.

"Viv's so patient with Zola," Meredith continues. "Shares – Zola doesn't always _ask_ before she wants whatever Viv has, but she never complains."

"Is there a line between _good with kids_ and _doormat_?" Derek's half joking, but then again, Vivian is their responsibility right now.

"Probably," Meredith shrugs, "but they seem … happy."

Derek glances over. Viv is sitting very still, criss-cross applesauce, while Zola wraps a purple feather boa around her small shoulders. Gently, Zola places a plastic tomato slice on the top of Vivian's head. " _Beautiful_ ," Zola says reverently, and then drops to her knees beside her older friend, then seems to think better of it and tucks a rubbery handful of pretend graps into the front of the boa.

"Where's the bunny?" Zola asks then, no warning, with a tone so urgent one would assume the bunny was carrying life-saving medication, or possibly a nuclear weapon.

"Which bunny?" Viv asks, and Derek can't help but admire her commitment to the game.

He turns back to Meredith. "They seem … engaged," he says, and then smiles.

"What are _you_ smiling about?" She turns his question around on him.

"Just thinking." He leans back into the cushions, drawing her with him. "Two kids … playing together … this will be us pretty soon." He pauses. "You think Zola will get along with her brother this well?"

"You want me to be honest, or optimistic?"

He's toying with a strand of Meredith's hair. "Fair answer," he teases. "Siblings are …" He stops then, regretting his choice of words.

"It's okay." She turns slightly so she can curl into him.

 _It was quick_ , that's what people said when her plane crashed over the snowy Rockies.

 _It was quick,_ that's the kind of thing people say, in a situation like that.

 _She didn't suffer._

Derek knows, because he heard it enough himself, as a child. _It was quick._ His father, head blown off in front of his two youngest children, _but at least it was quick._

"Derek." She's resting a hand on his chest. "You know I don't mind … talking about it."

"I know." He holds her closer.

 _It's not fair._

That's another one. And it wasn't, Meredith barely having gotten to know the sister whose childhood she missed before fate took her away again.

 _So close._

That's the one he doesn't say in front of Meredith. It's the one people said to him, for a while, even when it made him uncomfortable, because Meredith was supposed to be on that plane too. She wasn't, because she stayed home to deal with Zola's brief health scare.

He studies the sweet face of their daughter, the adorably bossy tone of her voice as it drifts across the room. _You saved our lives, Zozo._ In more ways than one – she saved their lives.

…

"Hey, look who's here!" Derek exclaims it with genuine enthusiasm, seeing his mother looking better already from the morning, clearly rested and trudging out of the guest room.

"No need to announce it, sweetheart, they're not going to miss me." But she gives him a fond smile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Peachy," his mother says. "No, really," she frowns when Derek raises his eyebrows, "I had a nice lie-down … not a nap, thank you very much, I'm not young _or_ old enough for that one."

"You just had surgery," he says faintly.

"Did I? I wondered what that little twinge was."

"You don't have to be so tough all the time, you know," he says, following her into the kitchen where she's bustling around, making tea as if she owns the place. She's already more comfortable with the cabinets and counters than he is in the rented apartment.

She doesn't answer, studying the gas stove as she fiddles with the controls.

"Mom," he prods gently, "you'll recover faster if you take it easier now."

"All my children are doctors," she says, announcing it to the room at large, "and they seem to forget that I trained as a nurse. And who does all the _real_ work when surgery's done?"

"Nurses," he says immediately, resisting the urge to salute – that usually got a lifted eyebrow and a halfhearted swipe with her wooden spoon. It's true, too, in his experience.

"Well, then. Let me drink my tea in peace," she scolds.

Derek hovers, a little hurt.

"You can sit with me, son," she says, her tone more gentle now, "unless you want to go join your girls."

Derek peers out the open doorframe, where he can see Meredith sitting between Vivian and Zola on the floor, apparently having been drafted into whatever complicated grocery store game is on the agenda this time.

"I think they're doing okay without me." He pulls out the chair across from her.

"How's Mark?"

His mother never did pull punches.

Derek shakes his head, not sure what to say.

"I thought so, but …" Carolyn shakes her head. "It's hard, holding it together for the little ones."

There's a long, silent series of moments where Derek realizes that Vivian is the same age Amy was when their father was killed.

"And …" Carolyn pauses, apparently not certain if it's okay to say her name, "Addie," she pronounces finally, softly, "how is she … any news?"

"Not really." Derek studies the smooth formica of the table, its color dull against his drumming fingers.

"It's kind of you, to look after Vivian," his mother says quietly.

He's not sure what to say, and his mother seems to pick up on that. "I mean … with all the history between the three of you," she pushes gently.

"It's not Vivian's fault," Derek says, staring out at the greyscape outside the dusty window. His mother's eyes travel there too, looking at the grimy spires. "She's a child," he says quietly.

"She's not just – "

"So she's an adulterous love child." Derek pronounces the words with some distaste, a little annoyed that his mother is pushing it. "It's hardly her fault."

His mother nods. "I'm glad to hear you say that."

"It's the truth." He turns back to his mother. "She's no more to blame for her origins than any of us."

"Of course." Carolyn nods, fussing with the teabag inside her steaming mug before she speaks again. "After all these years, Mark trusts you with her," she says.

Years ago, when the wound was still fresh, he might have had a retort, something like: _Mark knows I'm not the one who can't be trusted._

"I don't think he had much choice," Derek says. "Vivian won't stay with anyone but Amy, or she wouldn't until she was bewitched by Zola."

At the sound of her youngest granddaughter's name, Carolyn smiles.

"And Amy," Carolyn says gently, "where is she in all this?"

 _Where is Amy?_

That's the question, isn't it?

"I don't know," he admits; if he had a lie he might use it but he doesn't. "She has – her own life, her own things," he adds.

Carolyn nods.

"You're not worried?" Derek asks, studying his mother's familiar lined face.

"I'm always worried," Carolyn admits, "about my children. It's what parents do."

Derek thinks about Zola's small sweet face, about the swimming, kicking, _oh so real_ baby his wife is carrying inside her. About the pained look on Mark's face when Vivian asked to see her mother.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I guess so."

"Daddy!"

He turns to see Zola padding into the kitchen with a big smile. "I'm hungry," she says plaintively, with her usual level of drama; Derek is certain that anyone overhearing would assume they regularly starve her.

"You are?" He scoops her onto his knee. "Can't you get food at that grocery store of yours?"

"No, Daddy, it's _play food_ ," she says firmly, then turns to Carolyn. "Hi, Grammy," she says sweetly.

"Hi, darling." Carolyn raises an eyebrow at Derek. "How do you say no to this one?"

"Mostly … we don't," Derek admits, bowing his head to kiss the top of Zola's. "Hopefully it won't come back to bite us."

He nibbles playfully at Zola's hand in time with the word _bite_ and she shrieks with glee, then stops as if a switch has been flipped, her face turning serious. "I need a snack, Daddy," she says loudly.

"Okay, Zozo." Derek looks around. "Where are Mommy and Viv?"

"Right here." Meredith joins them, Viv lagging a little ways behind.

"Mommy," Zola pleads, turning her gaze to her mother, "I'm – "

"Starving, I know." Meredith smiles at their daughter. "Derek – why don't we ever feed this child?"

"I don't know," he says with mock solemnity. "We must have a reason, but it always escapes me."

He stands up with Zola in his arms. "I've got it," he tells Meredith, setting Zola on the counter and presenting her with a cheese stick with little ceremony.

"Mom – you hungry?"

"No, thank you, dear."

"How about you, Viv?"

He already knows the answer, _no thank you_ , but he figures it can't hurt to try.

His phone rings then. Liz. He glances at Meredith, who seems to get his wordless request and takes over supervising Zola on the counter right as their daughter demands, _grapes, please, hurry._

Derek steps into the hallway to speak to his sister.

"Liz?"

He pauses, letting her run out of steam. His sisters all answer the phone the same way, from peacekeeping Liz to tempest-in-a-teapot Nancy: with a stream of words it's best to let proceed uninterrupted until it's his turn.

When he can speak, he assures her their mother is doing well.

"Is she doing housework?" Liz asks, her voice a little tinny as if she's far away. "You know she'll scrub the damn baseboards if you don't keep an eye on her."

Derek laugh. "We're keeping her under control, don't worry."

"Under control." Liz snorts. "Not words I associate with Mom, but … okay."

"You sound fuzzy," Derek says. "Where are you?"

"In the middle of nowhere," Liz says. "Chloe's showing a horse, and … anyway, I wanted to see how you felt about coming out to the house tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"With Mom," Liz clarifies, "of course. If she's doing so well, and I think country air might be good for her. The kids are dying to see her – mine and Kathy's anyway, I can't get a hold of Nancy."

Derek tries not to catastrophize what that might mean. "It sounds … nice, Liz, I guess I should see what Mom thinks." He pauses, taking a few more steps from the kitchen. "We've been watching Vivian," he says quietly.

"Vivian – oh, Mark and Addie's daughter? Really?" Liz sounds surprised.

And Derek realizes she won't know anything about the turn Addison has taken. With some guilt about respecting her privacy balanced with necessity, he gives his sister the most neutral version he can.

There's a long moment of silence, just his sister breathing thickly.

"It's not fair," she says finally.

"No, it's not," Derek agrees.

"Is she – "

"I just don't know," he admits, "and I don't think Mark does either."

Another long, silent period.

"Liz – "

"So does that mean you can't come?"

He smiles a little. Liz has always been direct. Diplomatic – but direct. "No, it doesn't mean that. It does mean that Vivian would come with us. I'd have to see if the timing works, and … all that."

"Bring her," Liz says fervently, "it would probably be good for her to get away from … all that."

He doesn't disagree, just thanks his sister and then heads back to the kitchen. Instead of joining the others, he watches for a moment, quietly.

All four of them are seated at the kitchen table now, a plate of grapes, cheese, and crackers in the middle of the table. He sees them in a frozen moment: Zola is kneeling up on the chair the way they tell her not to, and reaching toward the snacks. Viv is watching the younger girl, head cocked slightly, a ghost of a smile on her face; Meredith is reaching out to urge Zola back down, and Carolyn is shaking her head knowingly, a fond expression in her eyes.

Derek's gaze skates down to the swell pushing Meredith's thin cotton shirt away from her midsection.

If only moments really _could_ freeze.

Then maybe he wouldn't have to worry so much.

…maybe no one would.

* * *

 _To be continued ... after an interlude. **Patsy** , I couldn't agree with you more that it's time for one. I have several options in mind, but I'd love to hear if a particular one is on anyone's mind. The briefly alluded to plane crash? Zola's adoption? I'm toying with the idea of letting Mark and Addison have their own interlude - I tend to be rigid about perspective buuuuut trying new things is good for the soul. And after the interlude? It's Shepherd barbecue time. So let me know what you think, pretty please, by pressing that review button! xoxo_


	34. INTERLUDE: fidelity

**A/N: Thank you, thank you,** for waiting so patiently on this story. I was feeling a little stuck, wanting an interlude but also wanting to continue the main storyline, and it resulted in a little writer's block. So here is the interlude I dithered over. It's a Maddison interlude, a hugely long one, told from alternating Mark and Addison perspectives before their Shepherd reunion. After all this time writing them from a distance, it was interesting getting into their heads, and I hope I did them justice. They've had a hard time of it, but I think a hallmark of Mark and Addison in canon and in this story is that they never really make things easy, for themselves or each other. But I think there's a lot of love there and I wanted to explore their family life with Vivian before Addison's illness took center stage. I hope you enjoy and that you'll let me know what you think. Next chapter is back to the main storyline and the Shepherd family + Viv barbecue.

* * *

INTERLUDE

 _fidelity_  
...

* * *

" _Mommy!"_

She hears Vivian's joyful cry before she sees her – and then her daughter separates from the throng of little girls in matching blue plaid jumpers and runs down the path.

Addison crouches to catch her in an embrace, holding her tightly for a moment.

"You aren't supposed to be here!" Viv pulls back, grinning. "Where's Needa?"

"Needa has the afternoon off."

"But how come you're not at work?"

"Because I have the afternoon off too." Addison smiles at her daughter.

"You didn't tell me!"

"Well, I wanted to surprise you." Addison kisses her cheek and Viv throws her arms back around her mother's neck.

"So … is it a good surprise?" she asks her daughter.

"It's a great surprise," Viv says happily.

Addison stands up carefully on the leather riding boots that, along with the leaves she crunched crossing Park Avenue, always just feel like autumn. She rests a hand on the top of her daughter's head and watches Viv's gaze travel to the middle of her mother's body.

"Is she okay?" Viv asks quietly.

"She's okay, sweetheart." Addison strokes her daughter's cheek. "She's doing great, Vivi, please don't worry about her."

Vivian nods, but she doesn't look entirely convinced.

"What do you think," Addison proposes, hoping her light tone will rub off on her daughter. "Is it too cold for ice cream?"

"No!" Viv smiles broadly.

"Okay, good. You ready? Where's your jacket and your backpack?"

"Over there." Vivian points.

Addison nods to the dismissal team keeping an eye on the rest of the kindergarteners while Vivian collects the green canvas backpack that sometimes looks bigger than she does.

"No jacket." Viv pulls away when Addison holds out the little blue quilted coat.

"It's windy, sweetheart."

"Nuh-uh."

Addison sighs, but relents, taking Viv's small hand in hers. Vivian waves goodbye to the gathered little girls with her other hand and trots quickly beside her mother.

"Mommy," she says as Addison pushes through the heavy iron gates. "There's no school tomorrow."

"I know, Viv. Tomorrow _or_ Friday, right?"

"Yeah." Vivian considers this, sounding a little disappointed. "Can Sutton come over tomorrow?"

"Maybe Friday instead," Addison suggests. "Daddy's going to stay home tomorrow."

"He is?" Viv's excited tone makes her smile. "To play with me?"

"Exactly."

They stop at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Vivian pokes at a pile of leaves with one little foot. She's wearing tights and the same little shoes as her classmates, the ones that look like mary janes but have sneaker-style soles, letting her run around with athletic support to her heart's content.

A fall breeze skates over them, lifting a few of the crumpled leaves. Addison shivers and sees Vivian do the same.

This time, she doesn't complain when her mother holds out her coat. Addison pulls Vivian's long braids carefully from the collar and buttons it to her throat.

"No, Mommy," Viv pulls at the neck of her coat. "It's too tight. Needa never does that one."

 _Well, I do._ Addison starts to respond, then thinks better of it and just undoes the button. "Better?"

Viv nods.

Addison takes her little hand; the light's changed, and it's time to move.

It's good that Vivian adores her nanny, and that the feeling is mutual. It's what Addison wants, of course, for her daughter to be happy and secure and well cared for. Needa's grown children are successful and satisfied, lovely, a mark of the unflappable woman's ability to nurture and direct, but still, sometimes …

Well. It's silly.

And Mark never seems bothered by it. He's endlessly patient with Vivian. "Needa's not here right now," he'll say casually if Viv protests, and turn her upside down or tickle her sides to make her laugh.

"It's cold!" Viv's squeezes her eyes shut against another gust of wind.

"Told you," Addison teases her lightly, touching the tip of her chilled nose. "Still want ice cream?"

Vivian nods enthusiastically

They end up at Kismet, which has been around since Addison was a child and has become something of a vacation-day tradition for them. If she squints she can remember coming here with her father once, swinging her legs under the table and delighting in the sweet treat while a pretty lady she didn't recognize talked to her father.

They share the shop's signature frozen hot chocolate, sitting next to each other on elaborately wrought soft chairs.

Viv sighs with ecstasy at her first spoonful.

"Good?"

"So good." Viv smiles at her. "I like when you pick me up at school," she adds, and Addison feels her heart swell with love.

"Me too, sweetheart."

"When Faith is born," Vivian says casually, "who's gonna take care of her, you or Needa?"

… and then her stomach twists again. "I'm going to take some time off work when she's born," Addison says carefully, glad Mark isn't there to hear them talking like this, "just like I did when you were born."

"You did?"

Addison nods. "I did." It was a magical three months, another golden autumn, a time of confusion, anxiety, change … and the greatest joy of her life.

"Did Needa help when I was born?"

"Needa wasn't there yet, sweetheart, not until you were a few months old."

"Oh." Viv pauses. "How did you find her, again?"

"Needa found us, actually." Addison smiles at her. She knows Viv knows the story, but she doesn't mind retelling it. "It was Christmastime and you and I were walking past Lord & Taylor, and I stopped to look in the window at the Christmas display. I was wearing you right here." She touches her heart, "in your carrier, but you turned your head and Needa was there looking in the window too and she said you were so cute you looked like you should be in the display."

Viv beams at the familiar story. "Was I?" she asks.

"You were _very_ cute." Addison smiles at the memory. Viv treasures going back to the Christmas windows at Lord & Taylor every year, and so does Addison. It's remarkable, really, how quickly something becomes a tradition when there's a child involved.

"And I was bald," Viv adds happily.

"You sure were, and you were wearing a tiny little hat to keep that bald head warm. A hat with bunny ears."

"Do you still have it?"

"What, the hat?"

Viv nods.

"I'm sure we have it somewhere, with your baby things. Why do you ask?"

"So Faith can have it to wear when she's born," Viv says happily.

Addison's throat feels thick. For a moment, she can't respond. "It will be spring when Faith is born, honey," she says finally, softly.

"But she can wear it in the winter."

"That's right."

"Then what happened, Mommy? When Needa found us?" Viv asks, returning to the story.

Addison smiles at her daughter. "Well, we started chatting and then Needa told me she spent two years with a family who was going to be moving to San Francisco at the beginning of January, and … it was fate. Kismet," she adds.

"Kismet," Viv repeats, then digs her spoon back into the giant bowl of frozen hot chocolate.

Addison watches her daughter. Viv has been excited about Faith from the moment she found out. It's only been three weeks since that day,but Vivian seemed to pick up quickly on Mark's less than thrilled response to her enthusiasm.

Alone with Addison, though, she's wanted to talk about it at every opportunity since the first confirmation.

They ending up waiting until the eight-week ultrasound to tell her. It was a compromise of sorts. Mark wanted to wait until the ten-week, at least. But it was hard for Addison to keep the secret when Viv asked about it so often. And after one full-term and one half-term pregnancy, her stomach muscles are shot; she was showing visibly by her eighth week.

 _She asked,_ that's what Addison told Mark, defensively.

That was another disagreement.

 _She's going to get too attached,_ that's what Mark warned her, and she was so hurt at the implication that the attachment would lead to loss that she just walked away without a word. Even though they don't do that. He let her, giving her space, and then tracked her down to the kitchen. _I just don't want her to get hurt,_ he said, and she accepted it.

 _Get too attached._ What does that mean, anyway?

Attachment?

Is it what Viv insists on now, reading a story to her baby sister each night, one little hand resting on Addison's belly where their much-anticipated child is growing? _We're not telling anyone else right now,_ they instructed Viv, gently but firmly, and she was so acquiescent that Addison felt a bitter taste of shame in her throat. She never wanted to raise a child so good at keeping secrets.

She never wanted to … but she has.

 _It wasn't supposed to be like this._

Vivian's brother should be here, fat and healthy and toddling around. Not tiny and buried and … he was _so_ small but so perfectly formed, and she was already in the habit of talking to him so she just kept it up: _It's you. I knew it was you. But you were alive only hours ago._

 _Julian._ His name was Mark's idea; they used to listen to _Hey, Jude,_ when Vivian was small and needed the kind of soothing lullaby everyone could stomach played ten or twelve times in a row.

Somehow, it seemed to fit perfectly.

 _Take a sad song, and make it better…_

That was all they were left with, a sad song. A brief moment when Addison held both her children in her arms at once, before they said goodbye.

A brief moment of healing, for her body to knit back together, before she wanted to fill the hole in their family.

And then the arguments started.

 _Take some time to recover_ , that's what Mark said, _let all of us recover._ That night, she rolled over in bed and didn't look at him; he followed her to her side. _Addison …_

But he came with her anyway.

She won, as she was wont to, and winning was supposed to make her happy, but winning also she also had to look at Mark's haunted eyes during the procedure. He held her hand like he was supposed to, and said encouraging words.

And he didn't say _I told you so_ when it didn't implant.

He did everything he was supposed to then, too: held her, assured her they could try again.

Except he was reluctant when they did.

He administered the injections she couldn't reach, alternated heat and ice to make them tolerable, didn't complain when the hormones left her sensitive and teary. Bloated.

And then finally, finally …

Faith.

 _Faith_ was her idea.

 _Have a little faith, Mark_ , she begged him, even though faith was something she wouldn't say either of them ever really clung to.

 _Faith._

She looks at Vivian's sweet face with her little upturned nose, sparkling blue eyes so much like Mark's. This strong and loving child, clever and funny and full of life, she grew inside of Addison just like Julian did. Except she stayed put, when she was supposed to.

 _Now it's your turn,_ Addison reminds her unborn daughter _._

She rests a hand on her midsection, trying to keep the faith.

…

"Daddy!"

Viv is already running across the floor in red and white pajamas and fuzzy slippers as he pushes open the front door. He scoops her up.

"You're cold!" she says as he holds her against his trench coat.

"And _you_ are nice and warm." He kisses her freckled cheek. "What are you still doing up?"

"It's not bedtime yet," she says indignantly.

"Hm." He sets her on her feet. "It's pretty close."

Addison joins them in the foyer, leaning in to kiss him. "Hi."

"Hey." He scans her quickly, as has become habit. She looks a little tired, but that's typical now. And she looks beautiful.

Addison always looks beautiful.

"How was Viv time?"

"Viv time was great." Addison smiles at him.

"Vivi," Mark turns to her, "are you ready for bed?"

She nods.

"Did you brush your teeth?"

Vivian bares a mouthful of sparkling little white teeth in response.

He pretends to wince, shielding his eyes. "I'm blind. Too clean."

Viv giggles in response.

Mark smiles down at her, then glances at Addison. She's a little pale. "I'll put Viv to bed," he tells her, and she doesn't protest.

Vivian does, though.

"I'm not tired," she insists angrily once Mark has hung up his coat and set down his bag and attempted to lead her upstairs by the hand. Finally he picks her up to ascend the stairs. She stops fighting him, just resting her pointed little chin on his shoulder.

"Can I sleep in your room?" she asks as they reach the second floor, her voice muffled by his shirt.

He cups the back of her head.

"Start out in your room, baby," he says as he carries her down the hall. "You can come in if you need us, you know that."

She leans back to see his face. "But what if you don't hear me?"

"We'll always hear you." He kisses the tip of Viv's upturned nose and then sits on the edge of her bed, worrying the ruffled coverlet in his hands, while she uses the bathroom and washes her hands, then takes her time picking out a book.

"You're gonna stay home tomorrow," Viv says, sounding significantly happier now. "With me. You're not working. Right?"

"Right." He draws the covers up over her.

She beams. "What are we going to do?"

"Hmm." Mark strokes his chin. "Let me think. How about … we scrub the floors … and then we can sweep the steps?"

"No," Viv giggles. "Like … something fun."

"Oh, something _fun._ Well, that's different." He smiles down at his daughter, stroking the side of her little freckled face. She looks sleepy and peaceful – even if her sleep itself isn't always peaceful – and he feels a rush of tenderness for her. _Let's just enjoy her,_ that's what he told Addison, _let's just enjoy our lives together and stop all the –_ but he never got to finish the sentence because she walked out, even though they don't walk out, and didn't speak to him for the rest of the night.

"Like the _park_ ," Vivian reminds him. "The playground. Or the museum if it's raining."

"Well," Mark says slowly, "if you really think that will be more fun than cleaning…"

Viv makes a face at him, then holds out her arms; he settles next to her to read. She's half asleep on his chest by the time the book is finished; he detangles himself carefully and sets her on her pillow before he kisses her goodnight. She blinks up at him sleepily.

"Night," she murmurs.

"Good night, Vivi." He strokes some of her hair away from her face. "We can do whatever you want tomorrow, baby. Get some sleep so you're ready for an adventure."

She nods, eyes drifting shut. "Where's Mommy?" she asks, opening her eyes again.

 _Avoiding me._

Mark just smiles at his daughter, preparing to tell her that her mother will come in to kiss her goodnight in a moment.

"She's right here," Addison says from the doorway, and Mark turns with surprise. Her expression is soft, and she brushes her fingers against his shoulder as she leans over to kiss Viv's smooth little forehead.

So she's not mad at him.

"Good night, sweetheart." Addison tucks Vivian's panda in more securely next to her, and then stands up, stroking some of their daughter's hair away from her little face in a similar gesture to his.

Mark follows Addison out of Viv's bedroom, and they close the door. Mark sets the motion-sensing alarm, feeling Addison's eyes on him as he does.

"She's going to grow out of this, right?"

Her nervous tone surprises him. "You did," he reminds her.

"Yeah." She looks down. "It's worse since Julian, though."

He can't deny it; that would be a lie. He wraps an arm around her instead.

"She'll be fine," he says, as much for himself as for Addison. "We have a system."

And they do, they've been able to control much of the disturbance with a series of timed wakings – it means no one in the house sleeps through the night, but it removes the fear that she'll get up and –

For a moment his stomach seizes as if it's happening again.

"Mark..." Addison touches his face gently.

He reorients himself, forcing a smile.

"She's sleeping," he says as he checks the portable green-screen monitor. Viv's already five years old, too old for a baby monitor, but the reassurance it brings that her sleep is peaceful feels worth the borderline invasion of privacy. At least for now.

He casts a hopeful glance toward their bedroom, but Addison is already heading down the stairs.

Following her, he winds up in the kitchen straightening up the remains of their day.

Truthfully, he loves these little moments with her; it's hard to feel tense about the big things, the frightening things, when they're rinsing impossibly small cups, or smiling over pictures Vivian drew. He's seen Addison in stunning black-tie gowns and in nothing at all but sometimes he thinks she's the prettiest of all laughing with him at the kitchen sink in soapy pink rubber gloves, telling him something funny their daughter did that day.

He takes over the dishes and tells her to go relax; she takes a cup of herbal tea into the living room.

By the time he joins her, there's a pale pink satin photo album open on her lap, and his stomach sinks.

"I'm just looking, Mark." Addison already sounds defensive and he hasn't even said anything yet.

 _No, you're not._

But he doesn't want to argue, and when she pauses on a picture of the three of them he sits down beside her.

She leans against him and he holds her carefully, running a hand over the softer curve of her side.

"She was so tiny." Addison laughs. "Can you believe – _look_ at that," and then he's laughing too, because it's a picture of Mark wearing Vivian outward-facing on his chest in the park and there are fat pigeons mid-hop next to him that look bigger than their baby.

He's not immune to this … baby fever, whatever you want to call it, whatever he calls it when no one can hear him. Vivian is without a doubt the best thing that ever happened to him. After spending his twenties and nearly all of his thirties desperately avoiding getting a woman pregnant, he didn't expect to fall as head-spinningly, all-consumingly in love as he did with his child.

He was as eager as Addison for a second child, supporting her through egg retrieval and fertilization, painstakingly growing the embryos to find the strongest, each one of the five days more tense than the last. She was excited and calm, then, making jokes about storing up nuts for winter. He held her hand when they implanted the embryo that would take, the one that could have been their son.

He's glad Addison can't hear him think that.

 _Could have been._ She'd hate that. Julian _was_ their son, to her, and it's not that he doesn't agree – without Addison's experience in fetal milestones, he was surprised both by how developed the baby was at nineteen weeks and also how undeveloped, all at once.

But he doesn't want to upset her. She's tense from the hormones, emotional, still taking progesterone daily that she never complains about, but he can hear her wordless hisses, sometimes, during the injections.

It's not that he doesn't want another child. It's not. Or that he, too, doesn't feel some sense of … something, about the embryos they created together. He and Addison don't differ medically or even philosophically, not really. But Vivian, though. He looks at Vivian, who walks and talks and laughs at actual jokes now, has food preferences and little rituals of her own and grows every day. Vivian is a person. Faith … he has no doubt he'll love the baby growing from the embryo they implanted a few months ago. To have another daughter … a live, actual daughter, growing up alongside their first baby? The idea is almost magical. But it's an idea, still. Vivian is a person, but _Faith_ is an idea.

Addison doesn't like it when he says things like that. _They're not in competition_ , she told Mark once, and he couldn't bear to see the hurt that flickered in her blue eyes.

She's right, really,

But it's Addison who's steered the ship, who insisted Viv be permitted into the room to see Julian, to hold him. Who argued with Mark about when to tell Vivian about Faith – who started to cry when Mark, as gently as he could, suggested maybe they shouldn't name her so early.

And he gave in.

He always gives in.

Losing Julian was hard for all of them. But in Viv's world of first-time mothers at forty, even forty-five … she wasn't the only preschooler to lose a sibling that way. It was easy to find a child psychologist with experience in the area. No one was really surprised when the sleepwalking started again, but it's under control now.

Everything's under control now.

They're eleven weeks and three … no, two … days along.

Addison was back at work a week after she lost the pregnancy with Julian, making miracles for other women. And she's as involved with Vivian as she's always been. Both of them work, they always have, but one or both of them is always home to tuck Viv in at night. Addison is a little less physical these days, a bit more tired, but she's still tireless when it comes to reading with Viv, sharing stories while she brushes her long hair, listening to Viv tell her all about her day in that raspy little voice he loves so much.

No, it's not a competition between pregnancy and Viv. Viv isn't missing out.

He's the one who misses out.

Months that turned into years of hormone treatments – before, during, after – sometimes the ban came from the fertility doctors and sometimes it was just from Addison herself, but either way, a major part of their life together blinked out like a broken billboard.

And she was sensitive to that, he had to give her credit, and she even –

But look how that turned out.

"Mark." She nudges him, and her eyes are soft when he glances over. "You remember the bunny hat?"

He follows her finger to a photograph of an impossibly small Viv sleeping in her stroller, wearing a soft grey hat with two pink-lined bunny ears.

"Yeah." He tightens his arm a little, pulling Addison closer. "I remember the bunny hat."

…

She changes into pajamas in the bathroom off their bedroom, with the door closed.

It's silly, really, Mark has seen her body a thousand times, but it hasn't really felt like _her_ body in a while now, the loose pocket of skin she couldn't quite change after Viv was born that seemed to fill back up in an instant when this pregnancy took. Nothing is where it used to be, everything's a little … looser, but that's normal.

It is. She's told hundreds of women how _normal_ it is, over the course of her career.

Pregnancy, aging…

But Mark looks the same. Maybe she wouldn't notice as much if he didn't look the same, if he didn't look great, if middle age had settled around _his_ middle the way it did hers.

He kept telling her she was beautiful, that he wanted her, but he was patient and understanding when she pushed him away again and again … sore and sensitive, or medically banned.

He's good to her.

But he's human, too.

And she doesn't miss the guilt in his familiar blue eyes when she leans in to kiss him goodnight, palms hesitant on her satin-covered hips. He touches her so carefully these days – she's always a little sore from a fresh injection, breasts tender from the hormones. She lies down next to him and curls into his side.

 _It won't always be like this,_ that's what she told him, and he said, _I just want to enjoy our lives,_ and she was annoyed at that. As if she didn't want the same thing.

He's stroking her arm rhythmically now, soothing her.

"When Faith is born," she begins tentatively, and feels his muscles tense next to her. But she pushes on. "When Faith is born, I'll be back to … no more treatments, no more hormones." She rests a hand on his bare chest, hoping it transmits hope. "We'll be back to normal."

He doesn't say anything.

"Mark…" She moves her hand lower, touching the hard planes of muscle on his stomach. He shouldn't have to suffer, just because she –

But he catches her hand before he can move it any further down and brings it to his lips. Brushing her palm with a brief kiss, he sets her hand back on his chest.

She feels herself flushing a little, embarrassed. He seems to notice because she feels his lips against the crown of her head now.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"It's okay." He pulls her a little closer. "Go to sleep."

With his arms around her, it's easy to comply.

…

She wakes to Viv's raspy little voice in the doorway, and Mark's deeper one, in debate.

"Mommy always lets me wake her up," Viv is complaining.

"Not this morning. We're going to let her rest. Come downstairs with Daddy."

"I don't want to."

"Vivi…"

She can't make out their daughter's reply.

"Viv. Let's go."

Addison smiles a little into her pillow at the sound of stomping little feet grows more distant. She lies in bed for a few more minutes so as not to make that battle in vain, and then gets up to find her robe.

"We let you sleep," Viv announces when Addison makes her way down to the kitchen, giving Mark a traitorous glare.

"That was so sweet of you." Addison smiles at Viv but she goes to Mark's side first, leaning against him. "How much did you have to bribe her?" she teases.

Mark kisses her cheek. "Let's just say it's a good thing you got up when you did."

Addison accepts a steaming mug of decaf from her husband and then sits down in the breakfast nook across from Viv, who is staring dispiritedly into a bowl of porridge despite the liberal amount of honey lacing the top.

"I hate it," she says when she sees her mother looking.

"Viv." Addison shakes her head. "That's rude."

"I _don't care for it_ ," Viv says more politely, then frowns. "Daddy doesn't make it the right way."

"Thanks a lot." Mark tugs lightly on Viv's long hair, which is loose around her shoulders. She looks rather elfin under the cape of messy dark-blonde hair, and more than a little adorable, so Addison can't be _too_ annoyed with her blunt comments.

"That's not very nice, Vivi," she chastises anyway, mildly.

Viv takes her critique in stride. "Can I have pancakes instead?"

"No," Addison says just as Mark says, "sure."

Addison glances up at him and he shrugs. "She has to eat something," he points out.

"But …" Addison stops, deciding it's more important to back him up than to protest, just nodding instead.

"And hot chocolate," Viv presses, apparently sensing her victory; Addison glances at her daughter. Vivian's blue eyes, so much like Mark's, are sparkling.

"Fine," Addison sighs, resting a hand on Mark's arm, "you're going to be the one dealing with her sugar high this morning, so it's your call."

"True." He doesn't seem too bothered by the prospect. "Heat up the milk, will you?" He's already cracking eggs into a bowl.

The pancakes are a hit, and when Viv thanks them both delightedly, Addison feels a pang of guilt for the very momentary urge she had to make Vivian eat the porridge instead.

She still remembers being served the same bowl of increasingly congealed porridge by a strict nanny irritated that she refused to eat it; at the time, she was devastated, only finishing it when Archer sneaked in to help, but looking back now she realizes she must have seemed horribly spoiled to the young woman tasked with looking out for her.

Addison takes a sip of the hot chocolate that Vivian, predictably, lost interest in after the first swallow. Viv's never had a particularly large appetite; her palate is varied for a child's, through angled toward sweetness, and most of the time neither she nor Mark engages in power struggles over food. Mark surprised her at first with his domesticity – she knew him, well, before their relationship turned intimate, but she'd never lived with him outside of sporadic weekends at the beach. He cooked for both of them on occasion, even enjoyed heating things up in the oversized oven. He pretends not to and she pretends not to notice; it's just one of their unspoken agreements.

"… and Chloe and Hiroko _both_ have loose teeth." Viv has been telling them a long story about the dental adventures of her classmates; now she touches her own bottom teeth experimentally. "And Schuyler lost one, like it actually came _out._ "

"Vivi." Addison brushes her hand gently down from her mouth. "Not at the table, sweetheart."

"And then the tooth fairy came," Viv continues, unbothered by the correction. "When am _I_ going to lose a tooth?"

"We don't know, baby." Mark slides in next to Addison. "Everyone loses their teeth at different times. When they're ready."

"Oh." Viv's hand creeps back toward her mouth, then she glances at Addison and lowers it. "But maybe today?"

Mark reaches for what's become a communal cup of hot chocolate and takes a sip, then makes a face, presumably at the sweetness. "Maybe, Vivi, you never know."

His blackberry buzzes then and he glances at it, frowning when he sees the screen.

"Mark?"

"Give me a second, I need to call in."

He disappears around the corner.

Viv turns back to her mother. "You going to work, Mommy?"

"I am, Vivi, but I have a few more minutes." She smiles at her daughter. "What are you going to do with Daddy today?"

" _Not_ clean," Viv says.

"That sounds fair. Are you finished with your breakfast, sweetheart?"

Viv nods.

"Take your dishes over to the sink." Addison eases herself out of the inset booth; Viv hops out with ease and carries her plate and silverware to the sink, climbing onto the little stool she needs to place into the deep basin.

"Thank you." Addison runs water, freeing a hand to stroke Vivian's hair. "Go brush your teeth, honey."

"Okay." Viv pauses. "You're not gonna leave yet, right?"

"No, not without saying goodbye."

Viv nods, satisfied, and then bounds toward the staircase.

Addison starts to leave the kitchen just as Mark walks back in.

…

"Everything okay?" Addison scans his face.

"Yes and no." He sighs, with that unfortunately familiar feeling that she's not going to like what he has to say. "I need to head into the hospital."

"Oh, Mark…"

"I know. I'm sorry." He shakes his head.

"Vivi's going to be disappointed."

"I know," he repeats, "but it's only for a few hours." He gives her a pleading look; her face is blank, lips pressed together. "Addie, do you think maybe you can …"

"I don't know." She glances at her own blackberry. "I have an office morning, but still…"

"Maybe Sutton?"

"New nanny." Addison sighs. "I don't know that she's ready for three kids, much less four."

"We can call –"

"It's okay. I'll, uh, I'll figure it out. I'll stay."

"Really?" He breathes a sigh of relief. "That's great."

"Great," she repeats, sounding a little annoyed.

"Addison." He shakes his head, guilt tugging at the corners of his mind. "Loeffler was delayed in Chicago and he needs to me to cover. I can't really do anything about it."

She doesn't respond, just walks deeper into the kitchen, seemingly looking for something to do with her hands.

"When's your first patient?"

She folds a dishtowel with quick movements. "Two-thirty."

"I'll be home by one," he assures her. "One-fifteen, the latest."

She nods. "All right. I have to call Louise."

Viv pads toward the kitchen as Addison steps out with her phone. He's heading for the stairs to go change; Vivian, who has always been so perceptive, picks up on it immediately. "Daddy? Where are you going?"

"I have to go to work, baby. I'm sorry." He lifts her up and kisses her cheek.

"But you said you were gonna stay with me." She leans back in his arms and puts her little hands on his face. "I don't have school today," she reminds him.

"I know, Vivi." He moves his head enough to nip her fingers and she giggles. "I'd much rather stay with you, believe me. But I have to go to work, and it's just for a little while. Mommy's going to stay with you this morning and I'll be back this afternoon to hang out with you. Okay?"

Vivian considers this for a moment. "Okay."

He changes fast and heads back down the stairs. Addison and Viv are sitting together on the window seat, looking out at the pouring rain.

"Yuck," Viv says.

"You can say that again." Mark holds out his arms.

"Yuck," Vivian repeats, and giggles as Mark lifts her up for a kiss.

"Take good care of Mommy," he tells her as he sets her down.

Viv pushes at him, laughing. "You're silly," she protests, "I don't take care of Mommy, Mommy takes care of _me._ "

"Either way," he shrugs, and then can't keep a straight face anymore. Viv's serious expression is cracking him up. "Be good, okay? And I'll see you later. Both of you," he adds, straightening up to kiss Addison goodbye.

Her face is impassive.

"All three of you," he corrects quietly, for Addison's benefit, and her face softens, just as he knew it would.

…

"Mommy … it's _still_ raining." Viv is staring out the window. "It's pouring."

"The old man is snoring," Addison adds, making her daughter smile.

They've whiled away an hour already reading together, cuddled on the couch under a soft knitted blanket, but Vivian is getting restless. Wind blows wet leaves against the thick glass, skinny branches battering the sides of the house.

"When can we go out?"

"When it's not a monsoon."

"What's a monsoon?"

Addison stands up slowly, stretching. "A really big rainstorm," she says, "bigger than the one we're having now."

"Oh." Viv considers this. "Can I have a piggyback ride?" She already has one small foot on the arm of the couch, reaching her arms up.

"Not right now, honey. I'm a little tired."

"You're a little tired a lot," Vivian observes, not sulkily, just … musing, it seems, but Addison is flooded with guilt anyway.

"Well." She takes Viv's hand in hers, encouraging her off the couch to walk beside her. "Then it's a good thing Daddy is around to give you piggyback rides, isn't it? He's never tired."

"Yeah. He gives good ones." Viv smiles up at her. "Mommy … can I have some hot chocolate?"

"You didn't drink the one I made you this morning," Addison reminds her gently, but it's hard to say no to Viv's little face.

"I'll warm up what's left," Addison compromises, and gets a toothy smile in return.

In the kitchen, she microwaves the cold mug while her daughter stalks the floors looking for something to do; a restless Viv is historically a naughty Viv, so she keeps an eye on her, massaging an ache in her lower back as she does so.

Vivian plays with a magnet on the fridge until it falls, then quickly picks it up and puts it back, and then pokes at the base of the cordless phone on the counter.

"Vivi…"

Vivian ignores her and heads for the desk by the window, moving slowly as if to dare Addison to stop her.

"Viv, don't touch," Addison reminds her calmly.

Viv pauses with one little hand extended toward her father's desk, apparently considering how much she wants to push it. Finally, she drops her hand.

"Can we play Monopoly?" Viv stands on her toes, mincing carefully across the kitchen floor.

Addison's first instinct with that game is a deep, heartfelt internal cringe, but actually with the lousy weather and her own exhaustion, a potentially endless board game has its perks. "Sure, sweetheart. Go get it."

Viv's little feet patter out of the kitchen and over the few steps up, down, into the family room.

The microwave beeps loudly.

She reaches for the door handle and then freezes.

The microwave beeps again.

Something's wrong.

She can feel it.

 _Something's wrong._

Something is very, very wrong.

She feels it deep down before she's truly aware, some leftover dark animal sense, and her vision blurs with it as she grasps the side of the kitchen counter. Words that don't quite link up move through her mind.

Call.

Phone.

Help.

 _Beep._ The microwave is still going, warning her that it's finished.

She needs to call someone.

 _Beep._

She needs help.

 _Beep._

Her phone is …

A wave of pain washes over her.

Her phone is always close by, for her patients, but it's – there it is, she just needs –

 _Call someone._

but there's a code – and then the phone slips from her shaking fingers onto the floor. Miles away.

 _Help._

The microwave beeps loudly again.

The kitchen spins in return.

 _Help me._

"Mommy?" Vivian's feet slap the floor, she hears a clatter, the skittering of game pieces across the hardwood. "Mommy, what's wrong?"

"Vivi," she pants, her daughter's anxious little face blurring, "no, it's okay, baby, I'm okay," and she feels another gush of wetness that tells her she's not, _oh god she's not,_ and she prays

 _have faith_

to anyone who's listening

 _imagine having that much faith_

to protect her daughter.

"Mommy? Mommy, what should I do?" Viv's panicked little voice is breaking what's left of her heart.

"Call … it's okay, just … I just need you to ..."

It's taking every effort to get the words out but she can't tell if they make sense and she can't quite see, either. She blinks and then she's seeing, but too much. Double.

Two little Vivians are pulling the cordless phone from the base. "Call who? Daddy?"

She wants to answer, but talking is too hard.

"Mommy, call who?" Vivian is starting to cry now. "Who should I call?"

Standing is hard too.

Hard, too.

 _Too hard._

"Mommy?"

Too much.

The last thing she hears before the room goes dark is Vivian's terrified cry.

" _Mommy!_ "

* * *

 **Reviews are truly appreciated. I started out wanting to write something fluffy about their family before sadness took over, but I realize that their lives - and life, y'know? - is both fluff _and_ sadness, and I wanted this chapter to have both. You may notice some old threads from previous chapters and some new things that aren't quite fleshed out yet and may be revisited later. I appreciate all of you and hope you will review because I absolutely love hearing from you. Thank you!**

 **PS - lovers of Maddison, I know you'll know exactly why I chose this song title. _Sniff_.**


	35. blindsided

**A/N:** Thanks for all the generous reviews on the Mark/Addison interlude. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Now we're back in the present. This chapter needed to be very long to accommodate the next one, so I'm sharing it as is. I hope you'll enjoy it.

* * *

 _blindsided_  
...

* * *

Derek floats Liz's invitation to Mark by email and is saddened – but not surprised – that Mark is appreciative and encouraging of their taking Viv with them.

"He says he has no idea when they'll …" He finds his voice trailing off as he explains the situation, quietly, to Meredith. They've snatched a moment of privacy so he can run Liz's invitation by his wife before he shares it with the larger group.

Meredith nods, then pauses. "Viv will need a swimsuit..."

She doesn't add _and I doubt you want to go back to that house._ She doesn't have to, which is one of the many things he loves about her – he can read that unspoken clause in the softness of her eyes, and he nods to acknowledge it.

"She may have packed one," Derek realizes as he says it, remembering how independently Vivian packed her own little bag in the sad confines of her bedroom. "And if not … we'll figure something out."

"Okay, then." Meredith smiles, and he follows her back into the kitchen to share the news.

Predictably, Zola shrieks with joy at the word _swim_. Carolyn nods approvingly. Vivian, though, stares downcast at the kitchen table.

"Viv?" Meredith probes gently.

After a moment, Vivian raises sad eyes. "Do I have to stay here by myself?"

"No, of course not," Derek says quickly. "You're coming with us. Liz asked for you especially," he adds, stretching the truth just enough, he hopes, to make Viv feel welcome.

Logistics make the rest of the day pass quickly – _keeping busy_ , Derek knows well from his mother, and by the time Meredith gives him an encouraging nod after tucking Vivian into the empty bed in Zola's room, he's starting to feel almost optimistic.

...

She's not sure, really, what wakes her up. Only that she wakes up, slips out of bed, and pads quietly into the living room. There, standing with her back to Meredith, seemingly looking out the blackened window, is Vivian.

Her long, messy hair extends so far down her back that it covers most of her short summer pajamas. If she hears Meredith approaching, there's no sign.

"Viv?" she calls softly, not wanting to alarm her, but she doesn't turn around.

One of her fingers is moving in the air, just slightly, in repetitive fashion, the other cupped near it.

The combination of Viv's pale, expressionless face, her curtain of tangled hair, and the eerie half-familiarity of her movements leaves Meredith unsettled.

Vivian permits Meredith to lead her back to the little bedroom, even climbing into bed and closing her eyes. Meredith draws up the covers, then finds herself

She watches for a little while to confirm that Viv has crossed whatever line it is that separates actual sleep from the discomfiting half-sleep of her nighttime disturbances. When the little girl's breathing is deep and even, small hand loose on the comforter, Meredith finally leaves the room.

And then almost stops breathing when she runs into Derek as she closes the door. He's all apologies for startling her, and she takes a moment to let his steady heartbeat calm her down.

"I heard something," he says by way of explanation. "Was she …"

Meredith nods, answering his unspoken question. "She's asleep now," she assures him, though she can't help wondering how much longer she'll stay asleep.

She finds her nerve endings on edge as she and Derek makes their way back into bed. In the middle of the mattress, Zola sleeps with peaceful abandon, one of her little arms flung across Meredith's pillow – almost as if trying to reach for her mother. Her small, warm body is comforting as they take their places next to her, but Meredith still has trouble falling back to sleep, waking fitfully when she thinks she hears something.

Is this how Viv's parents normally sleep? The idea makes Meredith sad – but it's sadder still when she realizes it's _parent_ now, and there's no definitive answer as to when it will be _parents_ again. The snake-tail of Vivian's sleep disturbances and her family's stress makes it unclear, at least to Meredith, how it's all linked – but the idea of facing what the Sloans have faced without even being able to sleep peacefully through the night seems nearly unbearable.

She takes a moment for gratitude before she's able to drift off.

…

Derek wakes to the smell of something cooking, rich and savory. At first he just rolls over, seeking Meredith's familiar warmth everywhere but her cold toes, and enjoying the feel of her breathing against him.

Then he blinks open his eyes and it takes a moment to remember where he is – the new scent of the sheets, washed by a different detergent, and the wheezy drum of the industrial-strength air conditioning keeping the relentless humidity at bay.

 _New York._

Another blink and he realizes Zola is no longer in bed with them. Carefully, he disentangles himself from his wife, not wanting to alarm her, but as soon as he pulls open their bedroom door he can hear the rise of fall of chatting voices from the kitchen.

Meredith rouses then, and after a rueful glance at their shared exhaustion, she ties on a robe and follows him to the kitchen.

There, he finds the heavenly scent of fresh coffee, a sizzling pan on the stove, slices of bread neatly lined up in front of the toaster, and his mother, wearing an apron he's fairly certain he never saw in the kitchen, looking absolutely in her element. At the kitchen table, two little girls are looking together at a large board book.

"Good morning," his mother says pleasantly, as if all this is normal.

Derek has to blink again to clear his head. This could be any weekend morning of his childhood, coming downstairs to find his mother cooking up a breakfast storm while a few of his sisters entertained themselves in the kitchen, helping wherever they could or just sticking around because of the warm, welcoming nature of the room.

"Daddy!" Zola squirms down from her chair and runs over to him. He scoops her up for a kiss.

"Mom …" He shakes his head.

"I made vegetable omelets," she announces. "Are you ready to eat?"

"You're supposed to be recovering, Mom. Healing."

"This is how I heal," his mother says, smiling. "Zola, sweetheart, go sit down and Grammy will get your breakfast."

Zola, no fool, immediately slides down from her father's arms to go back to her seat. Derek glances from the omelets – bursting with vegetables – to his mother.

"Where did you even get all the – "

"Elizabeth dropped off groceries yesterday," his mother says, as if that's perfectly normal.

"Well … it looks great," Meredith says weakly.

"Aren't you tired?" Derek tries one more time.

"I'm an early riser," his mother shrugs. "And so are the girls. Vivian was so helpful, setting the table for me."

Viv looks up at her name, then back down.

 _The girls_. That's usually Liz, Kath, and Nancy – sometimes Amy too – and it sounds both odd and also perfectly normal to hear the term attached to Vivian and Zola.

His mother has managed to rationalize all his protests, characteristically, so without further attempts to argue with her, he helps Zola get settled and then, when his mother refuses to help him serve, takes a seat.

Finally, to his relief, his mother sits down too.

"What's _that?_ "

Zola peers at the pieces of omelet Derek has cut and put in front of her.

"That's the nice omelet Grammy made for you," Meredith says.

" _Yuck_ ," Zola says loudly.

"Zo, that's not nice," Meredith reproves.

"Why not?" Zola demands.

"Because … because …" Meredith glances at Derek. "A little help here?"

"Because Grammy made you a nice breakfast with lots of delicious, healthy things," Derek says, "so we say _thank you, Grammy_."

"Thank you, Grammy," Zola repeats sweetly, beaming at her grandmother. Then she shoves the pink plastic plate away. " _Yuck,_ put it in the trash can, Daddy."

Derek has to press his fist against his mouth to keep from laughing. His mother looks like she's having the same problem.

"And how about you, little miss?" Carolyn smiles at Vivian. "You haven't tasted it either."

"I'm not very hungry," Vivian says. She glances at Derek's mother. "Thank you," she adds.

"Ah." Carolyn gives Vivian a conspiratorial glance, then lowers her voice to suggest she's speaking only to Viv even though it's audible to the table. "Well, that's too bad, because I was hoping you could help me out."

Viv looks confused, but vaguely intrigued.

"Well, _this_ one," Carolyn gestures at Derek fondly, "never wanted to eat a vegetable. Oh, he was terrible! If Derek saw green on his plate … he would see _red_ instead. But if he saw his big sister Nancy eating it … oh, that was a different story. Then he thought it was the best thing in the world."

"Really?" Viv asks.

"Really?" Derek repeats.

Meredith kicks him under the table.

"Oh, yes. Together they cleaned me out of lima beans and spinach." Carolyn nods toward Zola, who is now banging her pink polka-dot fork rhythmically on the table as if it will magically summon a more appealing breakfast. "I was wondering if that would work with Zola, too. She _is_ Derek's daughter, after all."

Viv glances from Zola to Carolyn, who nods encouragingly. Then, holding her fork and knife perfectly like a small adult, Vivian cuts a piece of the omelet and puts it in her mouth. They all watch her chew with fascination like she's an animal on the nature channel.

Or maybe it's because she chews quietly and politely with her mouth closed, a skill they haven't yet broached with Zola.

Viv finishes chewing, pats her mouth with a napkin. "Yum," she says with feigned, but relatively believable, enthusiasm. "That's really good."

Zola is watching her with interest now, fork drumming paused.

"Oh, you like your eggs, Viv?" Carolyn asks heartily.

"Yeah, I really like them," Viv responds.

"I'm so glad." Carolyn beams.

Derek is fairly certain neither participant in this two-woman show has a future on Broadway, but they're apparently convincing enough for Zola, who picks up a piece of the omelet with her fingers and pops it into her mouth.

Zola's gaze darts around the table at the adults studiously ignoring her, and then to Viv, who is continuing to eat her eggs with purposeful gusto. Quickly, Zola grabs another fistful of omelet and chews it happily, rewarding Meredith with an eggy smile.

Before long Zola's entire serving has disappeared.

"Vivian Sloan," Derek's mother says with a smile, "you are going to be an _excellent_ big sister."

Viv doesn't respond.

"All done!" Zola reminds everyone loudly, waiting for praise, which quickly comes her way.

"What do you say to Grammy?" Derek reminds her.

Zola turns to her grandmother with a big smile. " _Don't_ put it in the trash can," she says.

Carolyn grins. "I'll take it."

…

Vivian gets herself ready for the trip to Connecticut, as self-sufficient as she was the day before.

Her long hair is a bit of a tangled mess.

A bit _more_ of one, actually. She's holding a hairbrush in one hand in the little room where she slept when Derek stops in the doorway.

"Vivian, dear, would you like me to help you with your hair?"

He turns to see his mother behind him.

Viv holds the brush, looking uncertain, the offer hanging in the air.

Derek's mother takes a step into the bedroom, smiling warmly at the little girl. "I have four little girls," she tells Vivian, "who are all grown up now. And I have ten granddaughters. I've done a lot of hair in my day. In fact, I learned a few new techniques when – "

"Mom," Derek says quickly, anticipating where this is going. He shakes his head and she gets the drift.

"It's a little hot out to have all that lovely long hair down," Carolyn cajoles. "We could make a nice braid."

Vivian considers this for a while. "No, thank you," she says finally, backing away towards the little wall mirror.

Derek watches her try to make a ponytail out of the long, tangled strands.

"That poor child." Carolyn shakes her head as she follows Derek to the kitchen. She pauses, then glances at her son. "You stopped me, before…"

"Right." Derek checks the open archway to confirm that Viv is out of earshot. "Vivian doesn't know that you … knew Addison."

"Ah." Carolyn nods, then looks pensive.

"What is it, Mom?"

"Nothing. Just … I hope it doesn't come to this, but one day she may want to find out whatever she can about her mother. She'll want to talk to the people who knew her."

 _We don't have to think about that right now_ , that's what he wants to tell his mother. That they have time.

But for some reason he can't seem to get the words out.

…

"Daddy has a _big_ car!" Zola announces excitedly to the doorman, who's helping load them into the minivan Derek rented. It's approximately the size of a school bus, as far as Meredith can tell, so she can't blame Zola for being impressed. It also has a carseat for Zola and some kind of booster with five-point restraints for Vivian and – to Zola's utter delight – a screen setup to play media for the children in the back seat, complete with headphones.

After a minor argument about where Carolyn should sit, Derek finally urges Meredith to back down and helps his mother into the back seat between the two carseats.

"Perfect," she beams as Zola pats her arm in welcome with one sticky little hand, and Meredith can't help smiling at the fact that her mother-in-law seems to be telling the truth.

"This car is very high tech," Meredith observes, after she's fitted both girls with headphones and set an animated movie to play for them.

"Well, so am I," Derek says, dodging a yellow cab in a way that makes Meredith very glad she's not the one driving. " _Very_ high tech."

"Very," Meredith agrees. He glances at her briefly while they wait at a red light, his smile still just as capable of turning her heart over as it was the very first time.

They're not very far on the highway before Meredith's check of the backseat in her folded-down mirror confirms that Carolyn and her granddaughter are both fast asleep. Viv is awake, watching the movie. Meredith notices that the little girl is settled to one side of her booster seat, as if trying to keep from touching Carolyn. It's odd after Viv seemed so comfortable sleeping in the older woman's bed her first night with them, but Meredith is reminded that Vivian might not even remember that experience. She studies the solemn, pointed little face. For a moment Viv's eyes flicker and Meredith thinks she might catch her gaze.

She doesn't, and Meredith is left wondering, not for the first time, how much must be going on behind the child's serious eyes.

Traffic is light – Derek has timed it well – and Meredith watches the grey urban landscape turn greener by stages. Commuter trains chug in eventual step with the cars on the highway, and the glances she can see of home turn slowly from urban to suburban.

Meredith hasn't spent much time in Connecticut, familiar with it mostly as a bridge between Boston and New York. She's not familiar with its nuances or its borderlines, but by the time Derek murmurs, "I think that's the exit up there," they've left suburbia behind and firmly entered something more rural, with dense thickets of tall trees surrounding winding roads.

She glances at her husband – his expression seems calmer as they make their way up the country road. It seems there must be at least two Shepherd siblings, then who enjoy the woods.

..

Derek has never tried to wake a sleeping bear – in fact, he spent his childhood coached to stay far from bears of any kind – but he's fairly certain that attempting to move his napping daughter from the minivan can't be much different.

Zola even growls before she bursts into tears, shoving Derek unceremoniously and lunging for her mother. Derek hands her off with apologies to Meredith and helps his mother out of the car before turning to Vivian. She apparently hasn't been sleeping at all, but he's now spent enough time with her to realize that _tired_ is how she generally looks. He unbuckles the complicated harness; his hands hover near her for a moment before Viv pushes herself to her feet and ducks around him to hop down from the minivan herself.

All five of them blink in the hot bright sunshine – the humidity is more bearable here, the air cleaner, scented green and growing. Derek notes that, like so many things about the family he hasn't seen much of in the last half-decade, it's simultaneously just as he remembers and utterly unrecognizable.

"Derek!"

There's little time for sentimentality, though, because Liz is waving from the stripped-wooden gate he remembers multiple small nieces and nephews climbing. His sister is flanked by one of his no-longer-small nieces.

Derek carries their things and offers an arm to his mother; Meredith is cradling a whimpering Zola. Viv hangs several feet back until Meredith turns and frees a hand to reach out to her. She doesn't take the proffered hand – but she does catch up.

And then they're walking up the cobbled path, golden wildflowers bursting between their feet, and Liz is holding open the gate to welcome them.

"It's been too long," she says, kissing Derek's cheek and relieving him of his bag, handing it to a young man Derek doesn't recognize.

"Didn't I see you two days ago?" He keeps his tone light, and Liz lets it go, turning to fuss over their mother instead.

"Hi, Uncle Derek." His niece Carly – a bright teenager when he left, thinking about colleges, and now a first-year medical student – smiles at him. "This is my boyfriend, Kyle," she says, gesturing to the young man holding their bags. Derek sees Liz flinch perceptibly at the word _boyfriend_ and assumes there's a story there, but for now just shakes hands.

"Kyle, my uncle Derek and my … aunt Meredith."

Now it's Meredith's turn to flinch – though Derek is fairly certain he's the only one who would notice, because she greets Carly in a friendly way. Derek remembers they had dinner together – in fact, Meredith has seen Liz's daughters more recently than he has.

Kyle shakes hands with Meredith, then looks from Zola to Vivian.

"Carly, your cousins are so cute," he says.

All in all, Derek thinks, Kyle's assessment is remarkably generous: Zola, still half asleep and cranky from the car, is currently trying to weld herself to her mother, little fingers tangled so tightly in Meredith's collar that the modest shirt his wife wore in the car has become something else entirely. And Viv, who's taken an automatic step back upon seeing the new people, is scowling at the gathered Shepherds as she worries the end of her long, messy ponytail in two small hands.

Carly just smiles brightly. "Thanks!" She turns to Derek.

"Everyone's so loud," Carly grins, gesturing towards the large sloped backyard, where Derek can see clusters of Shepherd cousins. A jewel-blue pool sits at the bottom of the sweeping grass, audible splashes and shouts suggesting its use. Carly winces at a little at a particularly loud yell.

"I can show you somewhere quiet," his niece offers, glancing toward a fussing Zola as they walk a flagstone path toward a rough-hewn deck Derek remembers well. His brother-in-law's architect hand is all over this house, and Derek always appreciated his clever little touches. At a nod from Derek, Carly gestures for Meredith to follow. She does, hefting a sleepy Zola higher and taking Viv by one limp hand.

Derek watches them go, Kyle drifting off toward the rest of the cousins.

"That was nice of her," he tells his sister.

"She was a little shy too, at that age." Liz glances across the yard.

"She doesn't seem so shy now," Derek prods gently, curious about Liz's reaction

His sister makes a face, picking up his meaning easily. "I mean … he's … _fine_ , you know, but … she's too young to be that serious."

"It's serious?"

"It's always serious with Carly." Liz shakes her head.

There's a moment when Derek tries to remember being that young. "You dated in medical school," he reminds his sister gently.

"That's different." Liz smiles at him. "Get used to it, Derek, it's always different with your own kids. It will be for you too. All the stupid things we did, and the dangerous ones – god, do you remember the tree house?" She starts to laugh. "I can't believe no one ever fell out."

"Amy fell out. Didn't she?"

"Oh. Did she?" Liz considers this. "Maybe I was already out of the house by then."

She probably was. Derek heard the unspoken qualification in her voice, of course. _No one ever fell out_ meant _none of the originals_ – the first four. _The girls_ means Liz, Kathleen, and Nancy. Is there a term for all five of them?

"Derek?"

He nods.

"Nancy –"

"She's here?" he interrupts before he can stop himself.

Liz shakes her head. "She said she was working."

 _Said._

"Anyway," Liz continues, "I was just saying that I know Nancy is a lousy messenger."

It's a non sequitur, but it's hardly inaccurate. "Go on."

"…but I really hope you do come around more. No, don't – I'm not trying to pressure you, really. It's just been so long."

Derek looks out at the bright blue water of the large swimming pool, the scattered chairs and towels, and listens to the rise and fall of family voices. No one approaches them; they're half-hidden and shaded by a garden shed Derek helped Cooper and several nephews build one crisp autumn that feels like decades ago now.

He's grateful for the relative privacy as he tries to consider how to answer his sister.

"I know," he says finally. "You're invited to Seattle, you know."

"Really." Liz props a hand on her hip.

"Really," Derek says bravely. "Well, you know … one at a time."

Liz laughs a little bit at this. "Meredith isn't sick of us yet?"

"Believe it or not … it doesn't seem like she is."

Liz seems to be thinking about this. "I like her."

"Good. I like her too."

"Derek?"

"Yeah." He tries not to sound too impatient.

Liz pauses before continuing. "You're … different, you know?"

"It's been a few years," Derek reminds his sister.

"I know." Liz pauses, shading her eyes from the sun as she watches the volleyball game beginning on the green grass – part wild, part stamped down, dotted with bright yellow dandelions. "You seem happy."

"I am." Derek sighs at the look in his sister's dark eyes. "Don't make that … face," he scolds her lightly, "you look like Mom."

"What's wrong with looking like Mom?"

"Nothing, unless you're trying to make me feel guilty about something."

"I'm just saying you don't have to wait another six years."

He knows this. He does. Liz seems to be reading his mind, though.

"I worried a little, you know, when it was so long without hearing from you … that you thought we weren't on your side." _We._ The role and responsibility of the eldest: speaking for everyone.

"Weren't you?" Derek can't help asking.

"We were on your side, Derek, you're our brother!"

"So was he, for all intents and purposes, wasn't he? And she was your sister," he adds; Liz doesn't seem surprised to hear it.

"Was," Liz repeats. "Look, Derek, what they did … none of us excused it, you know? Not even Addie, from what I heard then, and … Nancy, you know, kept up with her the most, she lives in the city and they're in the same professional circles, but …" Liz pauses. "You know, before the wedding."

Derek thinks for a moment she means whatever wedding Addison and Mark must have had, but then realizes she means her daughter's disastrous wedding in California, where a furious Nancy blamed Addison for Amy's relapse.

"They still talked after that," Liz says, "not as much, but … more than I would, in Addie's shoes."

Derek isn't surprised. In his experience, Addison was as quick to forgive as she was to wound. Of course she would take Nancy's scraps, even after everything that happened between them.

"And now you're babysitting their daughter," Liz says, looking pensive. "She doesn't remember us, does she?"

"Vivian?" Derek asks, and Liz nods. "She doesn't seem to, no. She was very young at Clara's wedding."

"Right." Liz pauses. "It's so good of you, to help out with her. I mean, after..."

"It was a long time ago," Derek says. He's thinking of having those words printed on a t-shirt for the duration of his stay in New York. "You know, it's not particularly flattering to hear how surprised everyone is that I … " he tries to think of how to fill in the rest of the sentence.

"… have a heart?"

"Yes," he says irritably. "Mom, you … is it really so shocking?"

"Not shocking, Derek, just … " Liz's voice trails off and then she shakes her head, biting her lip. "It's terrible," she adds, and Derek doesn't have to ask for clarification. It's clear she means Addison's illness.

"Did you tell Kath?" he asks.

"Bare bones." Liz shrugs – sibling shorthand, and then just like that their semblance of privacy is gone.

"Uncle Derek! I thought I saw you."

Derek has only a moment to be stunned that his nephew, approaching with a young woman around his age, is taller than he is. Chris was eighteen already at the wedding, the last time Derek saw him – tall and wiry, but a still-growing teenager with puppyish hands and feet. Now he's filled out, with a thatch of Liz's dark and his father's easy smile.

Derek was in medical school when Christopher was born, and he's always had a special affinity for him. Maybe because Kathleen and Nancy have two boys each, a matching companion in the sea of Shepherd women. But Christopher, like Derek, was the lone boy in a house of sisters. Derek made sure to pay Chris attention, to watch out for him.

Now he exchanges the time-honored one-armed embrace with his nephew and shakes hands with the pretty blonde at his side. "This is Peyton," he beams.

" _Peyton_ ," Liz mouths from behind them to Derek.

"Nice to meet you, Peyton," Derek says, ignoring his sister's decreasingly subtle gestures. He decides not to judge Liz too harshly, since the thought of Zola bringing a boy home fills him with terror no matter how many years in the future it will be.

Liz, to her credit, waits semi-tactfully until Christopher and Peyton have made their way back to the volleyball game before she turns to Derek.

"They're too young," she says simply. "And she's … they're too young," she repeats instead of finishing the sentence.

"Clara married young, and you supported that," he points out.

"Right … and look how that turned out." Liz makes a face.

For a minute Derek remembers the dusky beach, Amy's shouts, the clatter of metal and glass and the sirens.

"That was the wedding," he reminds his sister, "not the marriage. Those are two different things."

Liz nods, and Derek lets the import of the words wash over him before following his sister down the flagstone path.

...

Meredith is impressed with Carly's sensitivity in thinking to separate the two overwhelmed children from the sea of strangers. Indoors, she doesn't crowd Zola _or_ Viv, just leading all three of them into a quiet family room and then busying herself looking for something on a shelf.

It doesn't take Zola long to come around – it never does. Moments after her tearful entrance into the pleasantly cool room, she's dug her face out of Meredith's neck and is giggling with her cousin. The room is thickly carpeted with a large, child-friendly couch – covered in the sort of material even the most determined toddler can't destroy. Meredith produces a stacking toy and a baby doll from her diaper bag; Zola snatches both toys and ushers Vivian to the far corner of the room.

Meredith is left with Carly, who looks over at the two little girls, and then back to Meredith. She seems to want to say something, but can't quite decide. Finally she speaks, her voice low.

"I, uh, I heard Aunt Addie's sick."

Meredith isn't sure how much or which details she knows; she's not exactly used to this game of chess Derek apparently plays with his siblings whenever information is at stake. All she knows is that she's relieved Viv, who is currently playing with a gleefully loud Zola, can't hear.

So she just nods.

Carly's voice is wistful. "I don't remember her _not_ being around, you know? She was already in the family by the time I was born."

Meredith nods.

"She helped me a lot when I was applying to Columbia, and …" her voice trails off and she looks troubled. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Meredith says. "It's sad."

Based on her expression, Carly seems to think she might be offending Meredith. "I mean – things change, I know, but still …."

Meredith nods. "I get that."

"It's nice that you guys came here," Carly says after a moment, her voice sounding steadier now. "My mom really wanted to meet Zola."

"Zola has enjoyed meeting all of you." Meredith gives her a nod and then turns to check on the girls.

"Meredith?"

She turns around again. There's a pensive look on Carly's face. "I just wanted to say that, um, we have room for lots of aunts in our family. Like, a ton…"

Her voice trails off and she gives Meredith a hopeful half-smile, which Meredith returns. Even without a finished sentence … she does know what Carly means.

"There you are."

They both look up to see Liz in the doorway. "Take your time," her sister-in-law says quickly. "I just wanted to say hello and see how you were doing. It's beastly hot out there."

"We're recovered." Meredith smiles. "Thanks to Carly."

Carly nods and takes her leave as Meredith realizes Liz is holding a shopping bag. Zola, whose hearing is bat-level when it comes to potential presents, is suddenly at her side. "Hi," she says cheerfully to Liz, pointing to the bag. "Mine?"

"Zozo," Meredith says gently, attempting to separate from her the bag.

"It's yours," Liz assures her, glancing at Meredith. "I hope it's okay. I mean, we haven't really had a chance to spoil her."

"Of course."

Liz reaches into the bag and hands Zola a pink cardboard box with a clear screen; inside is a baby doll in a yellow-flowered onesie, thumb wedged in a pink plastic mouth.

"Mommy, help." Zola shoves the box at Meredith, eager to see her present, and Meredith unwraps the present after thanking Liz.

The doll is larger than the one they brought with them. Hard plastic wisps of blonde hair dot its round head, and when its eyes flap open, fringed with brown lashes, they're bright blue.

"I heard you're going to be a big sister," Liz says, smiling at Zola, "so you can practice!"

Meredith wishes she didn't notice Viv going stiff at the phrase _big sister._

Zola regards her new doll curiously, then glances at Meredith, then at Viv, who is still sitting on the couch holding the baby doll they brought with them, with creamy coffee-colored skin and a soft fuzz of dark hair on its little head.

Liz suddenly looks mortified.

"I didn't think – I mean I just thought the baby would be … I mean the new baby …" Liz stammers. "God, I'm sorry. Here I was trying to – and I think I've screwed everything up."

"No, it's fine," Meredith says hastily. "Really. It was so sweet of you to buy her a doll. Zola likes dolls."

Zola is still examining the baby doll. "Mine?" she asks.

"Yes, Aunt Lizzie bought the doll for you," Meredith tells her. "What do you say, Zozo?"

"Thank you," Zola says automatically, her focus still on the doll. She gives the baby a few perfunctory rocks, then looks from the bundle in her arms to her friend.

"Your baby," Zola suggests, handing Vivian the little baby doll from Liz with its painted-on blonde hair.

Viv takes the new blonde doll with her free hand, the dark-haired doll they brought with them in her other arm. Then she sets them gently down on the couch side by side.

"Two babies!" Zola sounds pleased.

"They're sisters," Viv says in the husky voice that's grown familiar now.

"Yeah." Zola smiles.

Meredith watches with interest though she goes unnoticed by either little girl.

"So sweet," Liz says gently. Meredith supposes from the faraway look in her eyes she's thinking about her own not-so-little girls.

From the moment she realized she would be spending time with Derek's pack of sisters, she expected to feel a great distance between herself and the other women. But while there's no doubt they're different, she finds herself interested in Liz's own parenting – she raised Clara, so calm at the wedding that fell to pieces around her, and Carly, who handled a shy Viv and cranky Zola so empathetically.

Liz seems to know what she's thinking. "I feel like my kids were that size yesterday," she says softly.

The sentimental moment is broken when they hear a loud sound.

They look over to see Zola crouched on the floor smiling broadly and using the head of her new doll to bang in one of the colorful wooden blocks in her stacking toy.

"Um," Meredith stifles a laugh. "I guess we have time to work on that before the baby's born…"

Liz smiles, then reaches back into the bag. "Vivian," she says, "I have something for you too."

"For me?" Viv looks intrigued, and somewhat doubtful.

"I heard you like swimming," Liz says, and produces a set of neon-colored rubber-looking rings. "They're diving rings. You get them off the bottom of the pool…" her voice trails off.

Viv looks genuinely pleased with the present, though Meredith has the sense she's been trained to act appreciative either way. "Thank you," she says, sounding a little shy. "They're great."

Liz looks relieved.

"What's that?" Zola looks with interest at Viv's present. "Sharing?" she asks hopefully.

"They're for big kids, Zola," Liz says with a smile, "to play with in the pool."

Zola frowns. "Vivi plays in the pool with _me_ ," she says possessively.

"Okay, Zozo." Meredith scoops her up. "There's enough of everyone to go around."

Liz glances out the window. "What do you think, girls? Should we go outside?"

Zola, suddenly shy again, clings to Meredith. "Stay here," she whines. Vivian looks equally uncertain.

Meredith gives Liz an apologetic look. "You should go," she encourages. "They might just need another few minutes to decompress."

"That's fine," Liz says. "I see the others all the time."

Meredith's gaze travels to Viv, who has rescued the blonde baby doll and placed it with its sister on the couch. She sees Liz is looking too.

"Oh," Liz says as if she's just thought of something. She opens a cabinet. "Vivian … do you want to see something?"

Viv glances over without speaking.

"Old pictures," Liz says to Meredith. "Dug them out of my mother's house when we were clearing the basement and stuck them in this album just temporarily – they're all out of order but I know I have some with – there we go," she interrupts herself; she's been paging through as they talk.

"It's your dad," Liz announces to Viv, holding out the album, "when he was young."

The album is large with a cracked cover; Liz sets it on the carpet and sits down with it.

After a moment, Viv approaches and kneels down a respectable distance from Liz.

Meredith follows.

"See, look, Vivian, there's your dad. They're teenagers here, Mark and Derek," she adds for Meredith's benefit. "Probably Chloe's age."

Vivian looks with interest at the picture. Both boys are wearing baseball uniforms and glaring at the camera in what she supposes was intended to look tough. The effect, though, is adorable, not the least because Mark seems to have achieved his growth spurt ahead of Derek.

"Daddy's so tiny!" Zola says with delight, and Meredith can't help but smile. She can almost imagine Derek's reaction, which probably includes the phrase _don't worry, I caught up._

"That's _your_ daddy," Zola says brightly to Viv, pointing at Mark.

Vivian nods, studying the photo. Her little hand hovers close to the faded capture. "Are there more?" she asks after a moment, then glances at Meredith. "Please," she adds.

"Of course, honey." Liz smiles at her and turns the page.

The next page skips decades. The baseball field is gone, replaced by reedy sand and a clapboard house, laughing faces in bathing suits.

"What are you doing?"

Meredith looks up to see a dark-haired teenager in the doorway. It's one of Liz's daughters, but she's not certain which.

"Looking at old pictures." Liz pats the carpet next to her. "Come and see, Chlo."

So it's Chloe, then.

"The old beach house," Liz smiles.

"Ooh, let me see." Chloe leans over. "I don't recognize it."

"You were so little when they sold it, honey."

Meredith studies the next page, another beach, a photograph of a much younger Liz, beaming and holding a dark haired child on her hip.

"Is that me?" Chloe studies the picture.

"Yes," Liz says, then pauses. "No, I think it's Cait. Hm." She studies it again. "Maybe it's you."

"You can't even tell us apart," Chloe teases. "Some mom."

Liz shakes her head. "Meredith, enjoy that sweet little girl of yours. It doesn't last."

"I'm sweet," Chloe frowns.

"More pictures," Zola demands, clapping her hands happily.

"Please," Meredith reminds her gently.

"Thank you," Zola replies cheerfully.

Liz covers her mouth with her hand; Meredith can see the smile splitting her face underneath. Quickly, she turns the page to find the next photograph.

The next page still looks like a beach house, but a different one.

"That's – " Chloe looks. "Is it Aunt Kathy's?"

Liz seems to be considering this, and then she and Chloe start discussing details Meredith can't quite follow. But that's all right because she's distracted by this newest picture. This time, it's a group of Shepherds gathered around a row of Adirondack chairs, some holding drinks, everyone looking like they're enjoying the golden light. The picture is somewhat overexposed – it must have been a sunny day.

At first Meredith is captured by the image of Derek, too much so to notice anything else – the picture was taken probably a dozen years earlier at most, five or six years before she met him, and she's seen very little of him from that era.

He looks much the same … except completely different, his hair shorter, some undefinable distinction in his eyes she can't quite identify.

"Daddy," Zola murmurs appreciatively.

Viv is staring at the picture.

And then Meredith realizes that perched on the younger Derek's lap, wearing a minimal navy two-piece bathing suit and laughing, is a younger version of Addison.

Her arm is slung around Derek's neck; one of his hands is at her waist and the other rests on her bare thigh. Addison's face is youthfully smooth, but she looks very much like the healthier woman Meredith remembers from the disastrous California wedding. There's no way Vivian won't recognize her mother.

And the picture leaves little – well, really _no_ doubt – about their relationship … not even, she fears, to a child.

"I was so skinny," Liz, who doesn't seem to have realized the issue, says mournfully. " _Look_ at that."

"You're not supposed to body-shame, Mom," Chloe scolds her and Meredith smiles faintly.

"You're right, Chlo. Thank goodness I have you to keep me in line."

"Daddy," Zola repeats, pleased, pointing to the little version of Derek's younger self in the picture. She squints at the figure on his lap, then looks up at her mother.

"Who's that?" Zola asks Meredith, pointing to Addison.

"It's, um …" Meredith pauses. Liz is saying something to Chloe, half turned away, apparently with no idea what's going on. "Um…"

"It's my mom," Viv says softly.

"That's _your_ mommy?" Zola asks, sounding confused, little finger hovering near the former couple.

Viv nods without taking her gaze off the picture.

"Oh." Zola points to Derek again. "That's my daddy," she says.

Meredith is suddenly reminded strongly of _The Parent Trap._

Well. A stranger version. Steeling herself to the uncomfortable situation, she tries to fid the most helpful – or least harmful – response.

Before Meredith can speak, Liz clicks back into what's going on and turns the page so hastily that Viv's little hand is bounced off the album.

"Oh, look, Chloe was just about your age here, Vivian," Liz says, her tone artificially bright, making brief, apologetic eye contact with Meredith.

"Ugh, that side ponytail is horrible," Chloe moans, seemingly immune to the tension in the room.

"You loved it," Liz retorts. "You used to beg and you never liked how I did it, it had to be Aunt Addie's way, with the – " she stops talking with a quick, uncomfortable glance in Meredith's direction.

Neither of them speaks for a moment.

"She was always good at hair," Chloe muses.

Meredith's gaze flickers toward Viv's tangled ponytail.

"I don't want to look at pictures anymore," Vivian says abruptly, and before Meredith can respond she stands up and walks out of the room.

* * *

 _To be continued.  
_ More Shepherd barbecue coming soon. Chapter 36(!) will pick up directly from this moment. I know this chapter was long, but I promise you the threads will eventually weave together. I also have to admit I really enjoy exploring the Meredith-in-Derek's-family dynamic. I hope you will review and let me know what you think because I love hearing from you. Thank you for reading!


	36. moving pictures, silent films

**_A/N: Thank you so much for your kind comments on the last chapter. This one took a very long time, and I apologize - but the good news is that the next chapter is almost complete, and will definitely be up within the week ... maybe longer. Thank you for sticking with this story, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter of the McGrey-Shepherds (and one little Montgomery-Sloan) reunited with the rest of the Shepherds._**

* * *

 _moving pictures, silent films  
..._

* * *

For a moment after Vivian bolts, no one moves.

Then Meredith climbs to her feet – a little more awkwardly than she might have a couple of months ago. She calls Viv's name from the doorway first, but there's no response.

Liz and Chloe both look worried; Meredith nods reassuringly at them despite her own concern.

Leaving Zola safe in the attentive circle of her aunt and cousin, Meredith takes off after Viv. The house is large and unfamiliar, and the room Derek's niece led them to initially seems to have been somewhat remote, but she finds herself eventually in a large great room with a high, beamed ceiling – and a small girl with a long, messy ponytail facing the far wall.

"Hey … Viv."

Viv turns around and studies Meredith for a long, silent moment.

Sunlight is streaming in through the large windows and across the hardwood floors, the series of hooked rugs, catching Vivian's face half in shadow. There are no electric lights on and the shape of the room, the placement of the beams, leaves it cool and a little dim between the patches of sunlight.

Half illuminated, half in shadow, Viv remains in standoff, somewhere between a sulk and challenge.

Finally, she speaks, and she gets straight to the point: "Why is my mom in that lady's picture book?"

Meredith considers the question. "Well … Liz is Derek's sister," she says. "Your dad and Derek knew each other when they were little kids, remember?"

She triangulates, carefully, and doesn't complete the connections. Faintly, she hopes Vivian will accept the vague explanation – but isn't particularly surprised when she doesn't.

"They weren't little kids in that picture," Viv scoffs, annoyance in her husky little voice, "they were big."

"Viv…"

"They _were_ ," she repeats insistently.

Meredith watches dust particles circulate in the strip of sunlight to Vivian's right until the few moments of silence feel deafening.

"You know what, Viv … I think this is something you should talk to your dad about."

"Why?"

"Because I think he would like to be the one to talk to you about it."

"About _what_?"

"About …."

But Meredith can't finish the sentence. Viv is looking up at her with wounded pale eyes. She's curious, clearly, but there's something else being the curiosity – frustration. Anger that Meredith won't answer her question.

Among other things.

"He's not going to tell me," Viv scowls.

Meredith doesn't say anything.

"I _told_ you, my dad doesn't like to talk about my mom," Viv says.

Meredith feels her throat tighten. "You know what, sweetie, let's go outside and see about swimming, what do you think?"

"No," Viv says simply, staring straight ahead.

"Zola's really excited to swim with you," Meredith tries, feeling a little guilty for using her daughter to bribe Mark's daughter.

Viv stands there quietly, not responding. Meredith is reminded of the child she first met – silent, shy, even sullen. That feels like a long time ago now – before the pool, the French restaurant, the somewhat unwilling slumber party. Before she got to know this child. Before a captured image of the past threw their comfortable relationship into question.

Are they going to lose the rapport they've developed over that picture?

"Meredith?"

"Yeah, Viv." Meredith smiles at her, hoping there's no sadness reflected in her eyes.

"My mom is _here_ , too," Viv says softly.

Meredith blinks, the unexpected words leaving her feeling a little unsettled. "What do you mean?"

Wordlessly, Viv reaches out and takes her hand. She leads Meredith toward the far wall, where a large, silver-framed portrait rests on a bookshelf. It's a family shot, a big group outdoors looking festive and a little breeze-blown.

Meredith recognizes a younger Carolyn Shepherd in the middle; the way she's surrounded by children, in-laws, and grandchildren suggests the gathering's purpose was to celebrate the older woman. A birthday?

The picture is old, the sprawling Shepherd grandchildren young and small, the fashion noticeably out of date.

Vivian points. "Look," she says urgently.

Meredith looks, Viv's words echoing, _my mom is here, too._

Addison is, indeed, there – she's young in the picture, younger than the other photo, but still very recognizable.

She's wearing a filmy summer dress, holding one of the little dark-haired Shepherd nieces on her hip and beaming at the camera; her free hand is looped through Derek's arm. She can't help smiling at the captured image of a younger Derek; he's smiling too, a nephew perched on his shoulders.

The little boy has a mop of brown hair and a mischievous smile; Meredith is lost for a moment imagining Derek with his own son, sitting on his shoulders that way. Almost unconsciously, she rests a hand on her belly.

Vivian is still staring at the picture.

"Viv," Meredith attempts gently.

"And _look_ ," Vivian says, ignoring her and pointing again. "See, my dad is there too."

Meredith follows her little finger to the portrait. The young man in the picture is grinning broadly; he looks filled out and healthy, nothing like the gaunt figure he cuts now, and his face is completely shaved – but it's unmistakably Mark.

"That's Zola's grandma … she looks the same," Viv continues, pointing at Carolyn, who's seated in the center on a wicker chair. "And that's Amy," she adds, pointing at a dark haired girl who's little more than a teenager; her expression is sullen but her heart-shaped face is definitely Amy's.

Meredith stands back, watching Viv make her way through the _Where's Waldo_ of her parents' complicated history. She knows it's not her place to tell Vivian the details. Perhaps it's not that shocking, or important, but it seems clear that her mother's first marriage is a mystery to her – and that Meredith shouldn't be the one to disclose it.

She could try to explain it away.

 _Your dad and Derek have known each other since they were kids. Your mom was friends with them too. They were all hanging out with Derek's entire family._

Vivian's only five – would she buy it? How much can a child that young read into the body language in these old photos?

One glance at Vivian's face answer's that question.

Vivian may not be able to put it into words, but she seems to have picked up on an unfamiliar dynamic in the photos.

And explaining it away?

That's just another way to lie.

So she can't just try to smooth it over. Not when she remembers being lied to, having her questions glossed over, and being refused the truth.

 _Mommy, what's wrong?_

 _Nothing._

For a moment she can feel a breeze lifting her hair – not a breeze, but the wind of motion as the carousel turns underneath her.

 _Mommy, where are we going?_

 _Don't ask questions._

"I'm not there," Viv says tentatively, drawing Meredith back to the present. She looks at the old Shepherd family picture.

"You weren't born yet, sweetie."

"You're not there, either," Viv says, glancing at Meredith, then back at the photo, squinting a little. "Are you?"

"No. I'm not," Meredith says quietly.

"Meredith …"

"Yeah, Viv?"

"I want to go home."

Cautiously, Meredith rests a hand on Viv's bony little shoulder; it's tense under her fingers, but she doesn't pull away. "We're going to leave later, sweetie, in a couple of hours. Liz has lots of room here for you to get some air, swim, and if you want to rest – "

"No," Viv cuts her off, "I mean to my _real_ home."

Of course. Meredith's hand suddenly feels very heavy.

"I hope you can soon," she says gently, "but for now –"

"I _know_ ," Viv cuts her off again, looking away. "I'm not a baby," she mutters.

The air feels heavy with her sadness.

Before Meredith has to attempt a reply, Carly chooses that moment to appear again, this time holding the bags they brought in the minivan. Meredith's hand drops from Viv's shoulder.

"I thought you might want to get ready to swim," Derek's niece says casually, and Meredith fears for a moment that Vivian will run.

But she just stands there, worrying the end of her long ponytail between two small fingers.

"This one's yours, huh?" Carly's tone is light as she addresses Viv, nodding at the initials on the little canvas bag. "I always wanted a bag like that, but there were just too many Cs in this house. Here," and she passes the bag to Viv.

Meredith smiles gratefully – then, and again when Zola appears hand in hand with Chloe, a worried-looking Liz behind her, and it's thankfully easier than she expected to distract Vivian with the lure of swimming.

…

The large swimming pool is empty and shimmering; Meredith sees a lifeguard chair hovering over its surface waiting for an occupant.

Vivian isn't exactly chatty or talkative, but she doesn't resist preparing to swim or following Zola and her cousins to the pool deck. She even accepts a compliment from Chloe on her blue-and-white striped bathing suit with its little red buttons. Zola, whose protruding little belly is decorated with a bright yellow happy face, beams in response.

The older girls lead the smaller ones, assuring Meredith they'll watch them closely and won't let them into the water.

Liz catches up to her just inside the pool fence.

"I'm so sorry, Meredith. I didn't realize Vivian didn't know and I didn't think about the pictures – I just wanted to show her Mark … but then I guess it wouldn't have come up." Liz shakes her head.

Her reasoning is somewhat convoluted, but well-intentioned, and her remorse is obvious.

"It's okay," Meredith assures her.

Truthfully … she's not sure if it is okay, and Vivian's detective work in the living room was distinctly unsettling.

Then again, it can't be the most upsetting thing Vivian has heard.

"I hope so," Liz says. She pauses, then sighs. "She's a quiet little thing, isn't she?"

"Who … Meredith?" Derek materializes beside them, looking rather amused at his own joke.

"Very amusing." Meredith gives him a kiss. "And no … Viv."

"Ah." He glances from Meredith to Liz. "Is everything – "

But one of the girls calls for Liz then, interrupting; touching her brother's arm, Liz heads off toward the shaded patio.

Derek is still looking at her curiously. "What happened with Vivian? Is everything okay?"

They both gaze toward the pool, where the two little girls are surrounded by older Shepherd cousins. Zola is offering one pudgy little arm for a swimmy.

Meredith moves a little closer to Derek so she can keep her voice down. "Liz showed Viv and Zola some old pictures of you and Mark when you were kids … you looked cute in your baseball uniform, by the way."

Derek shakes his head, smiling.

"But then the album kind of fast forwarded to a picture with you and Addison."

"Oh." Derek considers this, but doesn't seem particularly concerned.

"No, like _you and Addison._ "

Derek looks both confused and amused, lifting an eyebrow. "What kind of an album are we talking about here?"

Meredith smiles in spite of herself. "It was PG, don't worry. Well … maybe PG-13. The point is, you and Addison, the two of you … well, you looked like a couple."

"We were a couple," he says neutrally.

"I know that, Derek … and you know that … but apparently Viv didn't know that."

"Ah."

"And then I found her in the living room looking at another picture – like a big family picture. You were there, and Addison, and Mark too."

Derek nods.

"She asked me why Addison was there."

"What did you tell her?"

"I didn't," Meredith admits. "I … punted. I don't know, Derek, what could I say? It's not my place."

"No," Derek agrees, then seems to be thinking about something. "She's six?"

"Not even," Meredith says.

"Well, they usually figure out Santa Claus around what, seven? Not sure if there's a standard for when you work out the circumstances of your conception."

She swats him lightly; he catches her hand and kisses it.

"She seems to be handling it," he says, nodding toward the pool deck. Viv and Zola are both looking up at the older girls with fascination; Derek watches one of his nieces say something that makes everyone laugh.

"Mommy!" Zola bellows. "I _need_ to swim!"

Derek looks like he's trying not to laugh. "You heard the boss," he tells Meredith.

…

With a promise to join them soon, Derek lets Meredith take the first shift in the pool. He takes a moment to watch Zola's adorable aborted attempts to get her feet wet in the surprisingly chilly water before he heads to the shaded patio to check on his mother.

She's in her usual chair, with a good view of the pool, smiling at the antics that float toward her on the breeze.

"I'm glad we came," she says when Derek pulls out a chair beside her. "It's good to see the children together, isn't it?"

 _The children._ She could mean her own children – Liz joins them with a glass of iced tea for his mother, smiling at Derek – or her grandchildren.

"I can't believe how grown up they are now," Derek admits, watching his nieces and nephew.

"How do you think I feel?" his mother teases, looking from Liz to Derek.

The moment is interrupted when the gate swings open; Kathleen has arrived with two of her children.

Derek's mother smiles at him. "Go swim with your daughter," she instructs Derek fondly.

He does so, changing and heading for the pool. He finds Kathleen, dressed casually in lightweight summer clothes but apparently not planning on getting wet, lingering by the fence. She nods to Derek in greeting when he approaches, then gestures toward the pool.

Derek follows her gaze. Meredith is waist-deep in the blue water, engaged in some sort of game with the little girls and a few of his older nieces. As far as he can tell there's a beach ball involved, and a lot of laughing – even from Viv, who splashes Meredith lightly and then darts away when Meredith pretends to retaliate.

"Vivian seems to get along well with Meredith," Kathleen says without preamble.

Derek glances at his sister, not sure how to respond; he settles on simply nodding. In his experience, when his sisters have something to say, they continue regardless of response.

"It's very kind of her, to be so welcoming. Meredith, I mean."

Kathleen's comments often feel like traps – or the opening to an opportunity to psychoanalyze her listener. So he just nods again.

"And you," Kathleen continues, "it's not difficult for you?"

"Why would it be difficult for me?"

"Derek …" Kathleen shakes her head.

"You just got here, Kath," he attempts. "How about a beer, how about a _how are you_ ,before you start shrinking me?"

"I'm driving," Kathleen says, "and I'm not _shrinking you._ "

Derek doesn't respond.

"I'm not trying to dredge up ancient history here, but you haven't even been back to the east coast since you first left, and now you're babysitting the child your ex-wife had with your best friend?"

"Don't hold back, Kath."

"I never do."

"Well, maybe you should."

She blinks, apparently not expecting that response.

"Vivian is five years old, Kathleen. Her mother is in the hospital. Her life is turned upside down. You think she deserves her parents' past to be held against her, under those circumstances?"

"Derek, I didn't say that."

"Yeah, you did." He stares out at the grass. "Not in so many words, but you did."

"Then I'm sorry," she says, and she actually sounds like she means it.

"Okay, then." He nods, still feeling protective. "She's just a kid," he reminds his sister.

"I know that, Derek. I was trying to pay you a compliment."

"Yeah?" He glances at his sister. He looks toward the pool; Kathleen's son and daughter are already in the water with their cousins.

"You might need some practice, then."

She gives him a rueful sort of smile, the closest Kathleen gets to an apology. But he can't quite stay annoyed with her, not when it's been so many years since he's seen her. What he's not sure about is whether that's a good thing.

…

"Jump!" Zola shrieks. Her little legs are pumping frantically as she watches Derek on the side of the pool. "Jump in, Daddy!"

He shakes his head. "Too many people." He swings his way in instead, wincing a little at the cold, and then swims underwater to scoop up his daughter.

Zola reacts as if it's the most shocking – and simultaneously incredible – thing that's ever happened. He kisses her wet cheeks that are warm from the sun and smell of chlorine and sunscreen. Watching his teenaged nieces and nephews, it's hard to remember they were ever this small and enthusiastic.

They're good kids – then, and now, he can see this in their patience and inclusion toward both Zola and Vivian, and he's duly impressed with his sisters' parenting.

But they're tall and grown, enjoying the water in muted fashion. His two nephews are jostling each other in a friendly fashion; Derek can remember as if it was yesterday holding one of them on his shoulders and Mark holding the other for spirited chicken fights that resulted only about half the time in Kathleen yelling at them. He's amused to think of it now, with Christopher taller than he is and Evan heading that way too.

And so Derek decides, as he watches Zola splashing on the pool's surface like a slippery little eel, that even though for safety's sake he'd like to see his daughter swimming on her own in a few years … he's really going to miss how cute she looks in her swimmies.

"Watch me!" she demands, even though Derek couldn't take his eyes off her if he tried.

"Great work," he encourages her, "keep going!"

"Daddy, I'm swimming!" she calls happily on her next circuit.

"You certainly are." He holds out his arms and she kicks and paddles her way toward him. "Look at you go!"

Zola paddles her way to Meredith next and tries to clamber into her arms, a difficult task in her swimmies that leaves both of his favorite women laughing helplessly.

He glances over to see Vivian a few feet away, treading water under the watchful eyes of Liz's daughters. She's caught in a line of sunlight and he has to squint a little to make her out – which gives him a sudden flash of memory to summers at the pond and the public pool with Mark when they were small.

The edges of his memory blur ahead a decade, and then two, and Mark is with them at Liz's house for one of the many summer Shepherd gatherings, helping to supervise the kids and laughing at their antics. How much time did they spend in this very pool, tossing his nieces and nephews around as easily as they now can with Zola?

He never put it into words, maybe didn't even coalesce the thought – there was no reason to – but in truth, he always expected to raise his own children alongside Mark's. For the Shepherds that meant Christmas Eve stringing popcorn and listening to the children sing off-key carols, spirited Fourth of July volleyball games that usually ended with a few minor injuries, countless barbecues and swims and crisp fall outdoor afternoons. Liz's house was a family gathering spot.

It makes perfect sense that Mark's daughter should be swimming in that very pool alongside Derek's daughter.

Perfect sense … and no sense at all. At the same time.

Vivian catches him looking and ducks under the water, swimming away.

He glances toward Chloe, who gives him an _I've got this_ nod and swims after Viv.

A whistle cuts through the air. "Shift change!"

"The kids take turns lifeguarding," Derek explains to Meredith. "My sisters used to say it's the price of admission."

The both look up to see Caitlin seated in the high chair, wearing mirrored sunglasses and bouncing a crossed leg as she scopes out the pool. She gives them a wave, then climbs down from the chair but continues to survey the pool closely until Christopher hoists himself out of the water, grabs a towel, and climbs the ladder to the lifeguard chair.

"Daddy, my goggles," Zola requests, clasping her little hands prayerfully. He can't say no to that, so he hoists himself onto the pool side, shakes water from his hair, and roots through the swim bag to find them.

Meredith catches them neatly in one hand, and Derek is about to head back in the pool when a voice stops him.

"Uncle Derek?"

It's Caitlin, who looks troubled.

"Aunt Addie's sick," she says quietly. "Right?"

Derek studies his niece for a moment. time away from New York robbed him of recognizing the nuances that separate his sisters' similar-looking daughters; he can still tell them apart – even Nancy's twins, after a fashion – but it takes work. It's no longer instinctual, the way it used to be. The thought makes something flicker inside him. Nostalgia? Sentiment?

Caitlin cocks her head, misreading his silence. "Sorry," she says, "should I – do we have to stop calling her that?"

"No, Cait, of course not," he reassures her. "She divorced me, not you."

Caitlin smiles a little at this, still worrying the edge of her towel between her hands. "Is it bad?" she asks.

How to answer that?

Derek looks into the pool for a moment, where Addison's daughter is swimming in the care of Caitlin's sisters.

"It's not good," he admits.

"I figured." Caitlin looks toward the water. "We've kind of seen Aunt Addie more than you since you moved," she says quietly. Her tone is musing, not accusative.

"Well … Seattle is pretty far." Derek smiles back at her. "But I think we're going to start seeing you more often."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Derek glances toward the pool, where Kathleen's two, Lucy and Evan, have started a game of monkey in the middle with a bright yellow beach ball that includes both little girls. "I think my daughter is going to make sure of it," he says.

"Hey." Carly approaches them, shaking her hair off like a wet dog; Caitlin squeaks with surprise. Wringing out her ponytail, Carly glances into the pool, where Zola is collapsed over her swimmies in fits of laughter. She turns to Derek. "Zola's so cute," she says. "I wish you guys lived closer."

"You're not going to have much free time for the next few years," Derek reminds her.

"I know." Carly turns back to the pool. "I'm just saying."

The air is slightly uncomfortable, but only for a moment – at Zola's latest yelp of joy, they all turn back to the pool. "Again!" Zola cries, and they see Vivian toss one of the brightly-colored diving rings Liz gifted to her, and then plunge below the surface. Long moments pass, and then Viv pops up with the ring in her hand, holding it aloft triumphantly.

Zola claps merrily and Viv, who seems happy not to be confined to the shallow end, swims underwater halfway across the pool, then pops up and waves to a delighted Zola.

"Wow, she's really good," Caitlin says, shading her eyes. She turns back to Derek. "How old is she? Six?"

"Almost."

"Huh." Caitlin watches her, arms folded. "Aunt Addie was a competitive swimmer, right?"

"Don't call her that," Carly says quickly.

"Why?" Caitlin looks affronted. "Uncle Derek said it's okay."

"Yeah, but Vivian doesn't know that she was … our aunt," Carly says quietly; Derek realizes she must have had a conversation with her mother or Chloe after the album incident.

"Oh," Caitlin says. She pauses, recognition flickering in her eyes. " _Oh._ "

The girls rejoin the others in the pool; before Derek can do so, Liz approaches.

"It looks like at least one of my presents was a hit," she says ruefully, nodding toward the pool.

Derek glances at his sister; Meredith filled him in on the baby doll. "That was thoughtful of you, Liz. You didn't need to give either them a present."

"Presents aren't about _need_ , Derek, they're about want. And I wanted to."

Derek nods. Liz is silent for a moment, but if Derek knows his sister, that just means that she –

"Derek?"

He nods, not surprised.

"What I said before…"

His sisters are not known for letting things go.

"It's fine, Liz."

"I'm just trying to say," she continues, quietly but firmly, "because I know the girls are concerned about Addie, and I am too, but we all know how … screwed up it was. What they did."

Derek nods.

"We did keep in touch, a little, you know after … but it wasn't because we agreed."

She looks like she wants to say something else; Derek waits.

"It's just … you know, they had a baby and … kids, they change everything …" Liz's voice trails off and Derek sees her looking toward the pool at her own not-very-small babies.

Derek thinks of Zola and the fireworks she brought into their lives.

"Yeah," he agrees. "They do."

"You're not angry," she proposes.

"No," he says immediately, confused.

"You won't wait another six years to come back?"

Derek shakes his head. "I didn't stay away because I was angry with you, Liz, or – any of you."

Liz nods, then pauses. "That doesn't really answer my question, though."

"It was a rhetorical question."

"It was not." She makes a face at him, and he makes one in return. For a brief moment they're back in the house where they grew up, fighting for space on the couch or a turn in the bathroom – and they both smile, breaking the faint tension.

…

Zola is still laughing and splashing when Derek finally rejoins his wife and daughter in the pool. He looks – nostalgic, memories flickering in his eyes; he wraps an arm around her and they stand together in the shallow end watching the children play. Caitlin toss the beach ball gently, pretending to avoid Zola's arms but letting her catch it easily.

"They've been so great with her," Meredith says.

Derek nods. "They're good kids."

"You used to spend a lot of time with them," she prods gently. The _you_ is an unspoken plural; unsurprisingly, she doesn't have to elaborate for Derek to understand.

"Yeah." He looks out at the deep end. "At different times, you know, obviously we were incredibly busy when we were interns, and in residency …" his voice trails off. "It took my sisters some time to move out of the city, and for a while it was just easy to see each other. Amy was … Amy, and we were the aunt and uncle with no other children to distract us from paying attention to them."

Meredith nods. "Carly asked me about Addison."

"Oh?" He glances at Meredith. "What did you say?"

"Not much. To be honest … I can't really keep track of who knows what, and what they're allowed to know."

"Ah, now you sound like a real Shepherd." Derek shakes his head. "I suppose Liz told the girls."

There's a long silence.

"Carly was very close to Addison," Derek says. "Carly and Clara in particular, but she saw a lot of all of them. My mother never understood why Addison didn't want to have children of her own when she loved my sister's children so much."

"Did you?"

Derek glances at her. "Did I what?"

"Understand why she didn't want to have children."

Derek looks out at the pool again. For a long time, he's silent. "We were building our careers," he says finally. "She would have had to take time off, lose seniority … we were busy."

"Everyone is busy," Meredith says gently, feeling there's something more to it but not able to bring herself to push too hard when Derek looks troubled.

"That's what my mother used to say. _Everyone is busy._ " He glances at her. "Does it bother you, that my nieces … that they still…"

"Of course not," she assures him before he needs to finish the sentence; she knows what he means.

He just looks at her for a moment, his eyes so soft it almost hurts. "I didn't want to come back here," he admits.

Before she can respond, he pulls her close; she leans into him and for long moments they just support each other. Then he speaks so quietly against her hair she almost doesn't hear him.

"… but it's different, with you."

 _It's different with you too_.

She doesn't say it out loud; she doesn't have to.

She just holds him tightly, then releases him along with the moment when Zola's cry of delight cuts across the sparkling water.

* * *

 _ **To be continued. This chapter had to be split in two, so this was another domestic one, maybe a bit of growth - but you can expect a big change in the next chapter. I hope you will review because I love hearing from you. Thank you! (PS Neb, your update requests are always awesome! :) )**_


	37. there's never enough time

**A/N: _Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this (very long) update._**

* * *

 _there's never enough time  
..._

* * *

What's strange about being here, Derek decides once a few hours have passed, is that it's not nearly as strange as it should be.

It's true that he hasn't set foot on his sister's property in six years – as the oldest, with the most space, Liz was the most frequent sibling hostess. Derek spent countless Thanksgivings on the great green lawn here, bundled in down and wool to chase his nieces and nephews through crunchy fall leaves.

Liz was the default Fourth of July thrower as well; his summer memories from his previous life, his east coast life, smell of freshly-cut grass and glowing embers from the fire pit, of citronella and charcoal-grilled meat. The house hasn't changed much. His nieces and nephews – the ones who made it today – are taller, older, than they were before he left, some of them attached to significant others now. But their animated chatter with each other, the friendly shoves and scattered laughter of inside jokes, is familiar. They don't seem particularly concerned with the newness of Derek's visit or with Meredith.

Perhaps, as with Viv's entrée into their lives, things like this are just more normal to the younger generation of his family.

He notes with some pride, as he watches her with her cousins, that Zola has fit in seamlessly. They fuss over her the way he remembers the older cousins fussing over Nancy's twins when they were small, solicitous and teasing all at once, laced with affection, trading off the privilege of their focus.

He can't help smiling now, watching both Zola and Viv swimming in the same pool where he swam with his nieces and nephews when they were smaller. The overlay of his child on the scene he recalls so well from his own history – with the addition of Vivian, who is somehow both past and present, and maybe a bit of future too – strikes him.

"She looks a lot like Mark at that age, doesn't she?"

He turns at the voice to see his oldest sister.

Liz's eyes are shaded by her sunglasses, so he can't see her expression, but her tone is laced with nostalgia. She continues before Derek can respond: "Of course, you can't really remember since you were that little too. He was over all the time then. Mom used to joke that she was feeding two growing boys. He never wanted to leave." Liz pauses. For a moment, she seems lost in a memory. "He used to lag behind, when it was time to go. Like, he'd have to find his other shoe first, or he forgot something in the basement or the yard. Make something up, you know."

Derek glances at her.

"I remember once, he was probably only six or seven, and I drove him home one night after he'd stayed for dinner and there weren't any lights on in his house. I asked him if his parents were home and he said yes. I waited, though – you know, he was so little. He let himself in and then I saw him through the window. I saw him turn the TV on and then wrap himself up in a blanket, all alone. No one else was home." Liz looks out at the pool. "I should have told him to come back home with us."

Derek doesn't answer; his history with Mark is woven through with _should have_.

How long did Mark crave what Derek had: family, stability, a warm place to go at night with lights and other people? Was sleeping with Derek's wife thirty years later the adult version of lingering behind at the busy Shepherd house, making excuses to remain in their world instead of returning to his own?

"Poor Vivian," Liz says quietly. "I haven't seen them very much, Derek, since you left. But when I did – they were besotted with her, you know, everything was about her, their plans, everything. They had this … life, you know?" She shakes her head.

She doesn't have to continue. Derek can hear the rest of her thought just fine.

How did the little girl who was the center of her own family's universe end up a lonely Shepherd satellite just like her parents?

"I always thought he would be a good father," Liz says. "He used to be so patient with Amy when she was little, remember? She'd break whatever model thing you two were building or get in the middle of your baseball practice; you'd yell at her and Mark would be the peacemaker."

Derek considers this.

Mark the peacemaker. He used to insinuate himself between Derek and Addison when they bickered, sometimes.

Liz is silent for a few moments, and when she speaks again, she needs neither introduction nor transition.

"It's … not good, is it?" she asks quietly.

Sibling shorthand.

"I really don't know," Derek admits. "Mark hasn't given me much detail on her condition."

What he's heard has been brief and, he's certain, censored; he has no idea how much is Mark's interpretation. He knows only two things – or rather, he has not been told that the two things he knows are no longer true: that Addison is still not breathing on her own, and that her unborn son is still growing inside of her.

Twenty years practicing medicine and he never ceases to be amazed by the human body. So frail in some ways, so delicate and dangerous, and then so incredibly, unutterably primed for survival at all costs.

Still, Liz's expression – sunglasses and all – suggests she's drawn a conclusion from his words and his silence alike:

 _It's not good._

…

He doesn't have to work hard to shake off the rather unnerving conversation with his sister; Zola calls out to him from the pool to rejoin them, and then he's back in the cool water, heat on his neck, sunlight sparkling on the surface of the water. Zola's little legs cycle, arms flailing, as she tries to master the movements she'll need to propel herself through the pool.

Her laughter is just a bonus.

With Viv busy swimming with some of his nieces, Derek tows Zola through the shallow end, watches her blow bubbles and giggles her way through trying to clap her hands underwater. They alternate playing and chlorinated cuddling, Zola that adorable late afternoon combination of exhausted and riled up.

He should take her out of the pool, and she should nap, but her enthusiasm is contagious and swimming with her is a joy. He forms his hands into pincers and uses them to churn the water.

"Crab attack!" he calls.

Zola shrieks with laughter, remembering the game, and trying to avoid the claws. He moves his hands according to her movements, trying to get her to swim around him.

Vaguely, he's aware that the noise of the cousins playing with Vivian has lessened.

When he turns around, Vivian is only a foot or so away, staring at him.

He follows her gaze to his own bent hands, mimicking claws, where they rest on the surface of the water.

"My dad does that game," Viv says in her husky little voice. "Crab attack."

Of course he does. For the same reason Derek does.

Because Derek's father used to do it.

It was a silly game they'd play at the pond on hot summer days, a game that Derek realized later made them all stronger swimmers as they tried to find alternate paths through the water.

And Mark loved Derek's father, he knows this, reveled in the time they spent together. Enough, apparently, that he still remembers those silly swimming games.

Derek draws a deep breath.

Maybe Vivian has had enough obfuscation; maybe information is what she needs.

"My father used to do it," Derek tells her quietly, "when your dad and I were little. It was his game. That's how we learned it."

Viv thinks about this for a moment. "Was my mom there too?" she asks.

"No. We didn't meet your mom until we were older, when we went to medical school."

He says _we_ without considering the implications, but it doesn't seem to surprise Vivian. She doesn't look upset, either … more like she's thinking.

"Did you – "

"Crab!" Zola shrieks, interrupting Vivian's question, splashing water onto them as she does so and laughing.

"Careful, sweetie," Derek moves her hands gently as an arc of water drips over Vivian.

"It's okay," Viv says to Zola, and then turns and swims back to the older cousins.

…

They stay in the pool, enjoying their daughter's enjoyment, until Zola eventually tires. She allows Derek to divest her of her swimmies and Meredith to wrap her in an oversized towel and cuddle her dry.

The sun is getting heavy now, the grill sending tantalizing scents wafting across the lawn, making the strip of Adirondack chairs where they settle smell like charred meat and summertime – when a shadow crosses in front of him.

"Uncle Derek?"

He glances up. It's Chloe. "We're gonna close the pool – or we were, to eat …"

The rhythms of Liz's barbecues, and her attendant water safety concerns, have remained the same over the years, he sees.

His niece points toward the water and Derek sees that Vivian is still swimming, with Kathleen's daughter Lucy. Christopher has the lifeguard chair now, and he's hovering at the edge of it, clearly ready to abandon his post once it's safe to do so.

"Right." Derek glances at Meredith, who's holding a sleeping Zola on her lap and talking quietly to Carly and her boyfriend. He catches a few snippets of words that sound as if they're discussing his niece's studies; leaving them to their discussion, he heads for the pool himself.

"Viv?"

She looks up at him, shading her eyes with one hand.

For a moment her expression hardens, and he thinks she's about to protest, but she just turns and swims underwater all the way to the stairs in the shallow end, then climbs up the steps with as much dignity as a small child with water pouring off her can do.

Derek holds out a towel for her – the same striped towels he remembers from the last barbecue at Liz's place – but Vivian sidesteps him, walking toward the stack of towels on the low slung shelves.

He doesn't push it – she must be exhausted, and she's generally responded more to Meredith than to him. But he catches her looking at him with an expression he can't quite identify –annoyance?

No, something else. Accusation?

She catches _him_ looking then and turns away.

…

Zola wakes from her impromptu nap to eat a hearty dinner, making her gathered cousins laugh at her enthusiasm for both pickles and corn on the cob; Derek enjoys her antics and just hopes her stomach will stay settled for the long journey home.

Across the round wooden table, Vivian is quiet. She mostly ignores the plate Meredith makes for her – no surprise there – and throws the occasional dirty look at Derek when he glances over at her. Briefly, he wonders if he misread what he thought was a nice moment between them in the pool, or whether Vivian is just exhausted from another in a series of the long days that have characterized this period of her short life.

Meredith is distracted by Zola and Viv has made clear she's not interested in talking to him, but Derek notices that she takes a few bites – and then a few more – when Caitlin sits by her side, drawing her into a quiet conversation. He feels another flash of pride at how nicely his nieces have grown up.

He has nothing but gratitude for the choices that led him to Meredith, that led both of them to Zola, and to the child who will join their family in a few months.

Still, though, this journey to the east coast has given him his first taste of what he left behind. Somehow, with so many of them together, it feels almost right.

Dinner is the noisy and friendly affair he remembers well, cousins talking over each other, his sisters speaking in the shorthand they perfected over the years. The days are still long, light hovering after the last of the food is cleared away – but they gather around the fire pit anyway, as tradition dictates.

There's a protective grate; he and Meredith sit on either side of Zola and Viv nonetheless. Both girls rouse to roast marshmallows – even Vivian eats one – but it's been a long, active day, and they settle back on the padded bench soon after. The feeling of those green canvas cushions is so familiar, the hum of crickets and the snap and burst of light as fireflies hover.

He feels tired; he's used to gauging his own alertness levels, careful and strategic, and he lets himself drift away from the conversation to regroup.

"Look," Liz murmurs – a few minutes later, or perhaps more, and he turns to follow her gaze.

Zola and Vivian are both asleep on the bench, curled in toward each other like kittens. He's been absently stroking Zola's little back this whole time without realizing that she's fallen asleep.

"Isn't that sweet?" The fire crackles, and lights Liz's face – it's older than it is in his memory, more deeply lined when she smiles at the two girls.

Derek nods, then glances at the time. "We, uh, we should probably get going."

He leaves the little ones under Carly's watchful eye to gather their things. They prepare in steps and stages, as he used to now with a child and all the accessories that entails. His mother is still seated beside Kathleen, he notices.

"Mom? Are you ready to go?"

"Actually, dear … you go on without me. I'm going to stay the night, and one of the girls will drive me in tomorrow before my appointment."

"Mom." Derek glances from his mother to his sisters. "All your things are at our place. What about your medicine, and your – "

His mother's gaze travels to the bag she brought, and he stops speaking.

"You were planning this?"

"You have a lot on your plate, dear, with the little ones." She pats Derek's arm. "I appreciate that you've made a place for me, and I'll be back. But I'd like to spend a night here, if you don't mind."

"It's not that I mind, just …" Derek's voice trails off. Liz and Kathleen look encouraging.

Steamrolled by his sisters – what was it Kathleen used to say about him? _Running circles around all the women in your life._

Sighing, he nods. Kath looks satisfied now.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay over too?" Liz asks. "We have plenty of room, and it's a long drive."

"It's not that long," Derek says mildly. "Thank you having us," he adds, as pointedly close as he can get to speeding up the farewell, and Liz catches on.

"Thank you for coming." His oldest sister kisses his cheek. "It was good to have you here."

"Are we going to see you again?" Kathleen asks – if Nancy is known for not being able to take hints, Kath simply ignores them. "You're only here a few more days," she adds.

"You'll see us again," Derek says, forcing his voice not to sound irritated.

Liz rests a hand on Kathleen's arm, ever the peacemaker, then reaches toward Zola. "I'll carry her to the car," she offers, glancing none too subtly at Meredith's midsection. Zola stays asleep in her aunt's arms, and Liz, whose youngest baby is as tall as she is, looks charmed.

Derek glances down at Vivian, who's still sleeping. "Should we wake her?" he asks Meredith quietly.

She looks as uncertain as he does. "I'm not sure."

"We probably shouldn't have let her sleep," he muses. He realizes too late that Kathleen is still in earshot, bearing that hungry-eyed look she gets when someone might have an interesting condition. Without further discussion, he leans down to lift a sleeping Vivian.

Viv rouses just enough to wrap sleepy arms around his neck and doze off once more against his shoulder; Derek is fairly certain, from her comparably warm reaction, that she isn't awake enough to realize who he is.

She stays asleep until he's set her in the booster seat in their rented minivan; then she blinks awake and looks at him with sleepy confusion.

"Hey," he says quietly, hoping not to startle her.

She freezes, her body tense. For a moment, Derek's afraid she's having a sleep disturbance. "It's okay, Viv," he tries, keeping his voice as soothing as he can, "we're getting in the car to drive back to the city now."

She squints uncertainly into the bright interior lights of the van.

Derek exchanges a glance across the back seat with Meredith, who's buckling a sleeping Zola into her carseat.

"It's okay," he tells Viv again. "You can go back to sleep. Everything's okay."

 _Everything's okay._ To call that a hollow reassurance in Vivian's troubled life is an understatement to say the least, but he watches with no small measure of relief as she seems to relax a little, eyes fluttering closed again.

Both children drift back to solid sleep before they've reached the highway. Meredith rests a hand on his thigh a few moments later, the warmth of her small hand comforting in the chill of the air conditioning.

It's just the way he remembers east coast Augusts: excruciatingly hot and humid on the one hand, and icy with artificial cold on the other. Cool air blows through the van along with the low hum of the radio and the occasional soft sound from the sleeping passengers in the backseat. It's peaceful, in its way … and Meredith must agree because, to his amusement, she falls asleep as well.

And she stays asleep.

He feels a slight pang of guilt – she must be exhausted, juggling their own high-energy child and then Vivian too, who is both bewildered and bewildering in turns, and growing their son on top of that.

… not to mention her entry into the Shepherd world, his family complex enough to confuse even him at times. And doing it all brilliantly. He studies her face, relaxed in sleep, with a rush of affection, before he leans across the console and kisses her cheek.

Meredith wakes right away, a rueful smile spreading across her face.

"I was asleep."

"You were asleep," he confirms, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind one ear.

"I'm sorry." She laughs softly. "I wasn't much help getting home, was I?"

"On the contrary." He kisses her. "Your snores helped me stay awake."

"Derek!" She shakes her head at him.

He parks in front of a hydrant, planning to carry one sleeping child in each arm, but Vivian wakes up again as he's unbuckling her seat belt.

"Hi," he says quietly, trying to get a lead on her confusion. "We're back at our apartment now. You're going to stay with us tonight – with Zola, remember?"

Vivian doesn't respond, but she doesn't protest either. He lifts her out of the car and sets her on her feet on the sidewalk. "Can you walk in?" he asks, resting a hand on the top of her head.

Vivian nods sleepily. Zola doesn't wake up at all, a warm cuddly bundle as he eases her out of the still-cold car onto the steamy street. It's dark and humid, the sidewalk lit dully from passing headlights, building interiors, and glowing signs.

"Derek." Meredith holds out her arms. "I can carry Zola. Why don't you go return the car?"

"I will after we go upstairs."

"Derek…"

"You take Viv," he says, and Meredith leads her by the hand while he carries Zola.

There's something crackling in the air around his wife; he feels it as they make their way through the lobby, onto the elevator. The easy comfort of the car ride has dissipated, and he's as confused as he is troubled by it.

Meredith doesn't say anything, though, not until all five of them are back in the apartment and Derek has settled a slumbering Zola on the big bed and encouraged Vivian, who looks half asleep on her feet, to get ready for bed.

Derek turns to Meredith.

"I'm going to return the car." He pauses, apologetically. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes. But if you'd rather – "

"Derek, would you stop treating me like an invalid?"

There it is.

But she continues before he can respond: "You weren't this solicitous of your mother and she just had surgery. There's nothing wrong with me."

He's hurt by her tone. "I know that, Mer. I was just – "

"Forget." She waves a hand when she cuts him off, as if that will erase what she said. "Just – we're fine, Derek, I can handle the girls. Just go return the car."

…

Meredith spends the first few moments after Derek leaves to return the car on two tasks: kicking herself for snapping at him, and watching Zola sleep peacefully in the middle of the big bed. She's adorable as she dozes, long lashes on her soft cheeks, one little fist loosely curled against Derek's pillow. Meredith leaves a kiss on her forehead, secure that their sturdy sleeper won't be awakened.

 _Sturdy sleeper._ On the other end of the spectrum, Vivian seems exhausted but awake enough, and independent enough, to manage her own nighttime routine. Meredith raps lightly on the doorframe of the room she's coming to think of as Viv's, particularly since Zola has made no secret of her preference for sleeping in the big bed with her parents.

Vivian is already sitting up in the little bed, puffy comforter around her knees, holding her stuffed panda. Meredith smiles at her, vaguely hoping it won't be too difficult to encourage Zola to sleep alone again when they're back in Seattle.

Which will be soon. Very soon.

Just a few days and they'll return to their normal routine.

Meredith draws the covers up around Vivian, hoping her face doesn't reflect the sadness she's feeling as she does so. Because _they_ will return to their normal routine – their little family of Derek, Meredith, Zola, and Junior – but normal must seem impossible to Viv and her parents.

"Meredith?"

She turns around at the quiet voice, a hand on the doorknob.

"What is it, Viv?" she asks gently when nothing else is forthcoming.

Vivian's lower lip is caught between her teeth. She looks like she's deciding whether to say something, and Meredith nods encouragingly.

"Can I ask you something?" Viv says finally, timidly.

"Yes, of course."

Viv looks equal parts worried and relieved; Meredith is fairly certain she feels the same way.

But then the door to the apartment opens, loud in the small room – Derek must be back – and a shadow crosses Vivian's face.

"Viv…"

She just shakes her head, the moment lost.

 _Talk to me_.

But Meredith knows that's a futile entreaty, knows because she understands Vivian's anger – frustration, but anger too.

Anger … because no one would answer her questions. And Meredith knows it's not just the questions at Liz's house about Addison's place in the Shepherds' lives, either.

With one last whispered _good night_ , she closes the door behind her. Derek's eyes are soft when they meet in the hall, apologetic, which makes her feel guiltier. With both children sleeping, it's quiet as a whisper in the apartment. Derek looks as exhausted as she feels; he sits on the couch first, then she lays her cheek on her husband's chest, he places one hand on the spot where their son is growing, and they rest together.

…

Meredith wakes to a panicked shriek; she's halfway out of bed when Derek sits up, a sleeping Zola still wrapped around him.

"I've got it," she whispers.

In the little bedroom they intended for Zola, illuminated by a heart-shaped nightlight, Viv is sitting straight up in bed, eyes wide. She looks devastated and horrified at once … and confused.

And awake.

It's the aftermath of a night terror, she recognizes, frightening for Vivian but far easier to deal with than sleepwalking.

"Viv?" Meredith sits down on the side of the mattress and touches her damp cheek. "It's okay, honey, you were dreaming. Everything's okay."

Vivian looks disoriented and a little frightened, her eyes moving around the room.

"You're in our apartment," Meredith says quietly, answering her unspoken question. "You're sleeping over with us."

"Where's my mom?" Viv asks nervously, her voice hoarser than usual from sleep.

Meredith's stomach twists. "She and your dad are … not here right now," she says carefully, "so they asked us to watch you. I'm Zola's mom, do you remember that?"

Slowly, Viv nods.

Meredith smiles slightly. "Good. Okay, so Zola's sleeping now, because it's late. You were sleeping, before. Do you think you can go back to sleep too?"

Viv considers this, but doesn't respond. Meredith sees her little fingers tighten in the black and white fur of her stuffed panda.

"How about something to drink?" Meredith tries. "You want some milk?"

Viv shakes her head.

"I can stay until you fall asleep," Meredith offers, purposefully phrasing it as a statement rather than a question. Viv doesn't agree – but she doesn't protest either. Encouraged, Meredith reaches for one of her little hands.

Viv allows the touch – briefly – and then pulls her hand away and wraps both arms around her panda bear.

Meredith just sits by the side of the bed in the darkened room that's still fragrant with the sweet almond hair oil they brought for Zola. The unfamiliar room that's become familiar in the apartment they've been calling home for a week and a half, in a city laced with her husband's history and devoid of her own.

The familiar and the unfamiliar merge here, and she's aware, as Viv's breathing deepens and she slides into sleep, that every disconcerting sensation she's feeling must be doubled for her husband.

Is it any wonder he's worried about her?

Silently, she vows to be more patient when he expresses that worry.

… or she'll try, anyway.

…

Derek is on the edge of a pleasant dream, something to do with the lake and the specific Seattle smell of spruce, a child's laugh – when Meredith lets out a soft snore that at once wakes him, and makes him smile.

He studies his wife's sleeping face for a moment; she and Zola are curled in toward each other and Zola has a fistful of her mother's t-shirt gathered up like a security blanket.

It's early, but it's defensibly morning. Carefully, he extracts himself from the warm pile of his family and makes his way to the kitchen, staying quiet so as not to wake the others.

Weak gray light sprawls through the living room windows; it's quiet other than the hum of the air conditioning.

He's halfway through a cup of coffee when he hears footsteps, and glances up to see Vivian standing in the kitchen doorway in her pajamas. She looks a little disoriented, but awake, messy long hair in pieces on the shoulders of her pajamas.

"Hi there," he says quietly. "We're the first ones up."

"We are?"

Derek nods. "You hungry?"

Viv shakes her head, lingering in the doorway.

"Neither am I," Derek says with a shrug and Vivian gives him a very small smile.

He pours her a glass of orange juice and she takes a couple of sips while Derek drains his mug of coffee and gets another.

Viv is quiet, her little pointed chin resting in one hand. She doesn't seem inclined to speak; he's not inclined to push her. They sit together in the low grey morning light – somehow, it's almost peaceful.

Long moments pass, and the next time he glances at her she looks like she wants to say something. He doesn't push her.

Vivian lowers her gaze to the table, jaw setting with frustration – apparently fighting a battle with herself – and for the first time, Derek sees a resemblance to Addison in her little face.

Finally, he nods with what he hopes is more encouragement than hesitation, though truthfully he's a little worried.

Viv draws a deep breath before she begins. "What does it mean if – "

But Derek's phone buzzes then, interrupting her, and he never finds out the rest of her question.

 _Mark_.

Based on Vivian's expression, she knows who's calling.

"Is it my dad?" she asks eagerly.

Derek nods, not seeing the point of lying, and takes the call.

"Mark? How is – "

Vivian is staring at him.

"-everything?" he finishes.

Derek stands to pace the room, putting enough distance between the phone and Mark's daughter that she won't hear his voice from the speaker. _No change_ , Mark reports, in between thanking him profusely for watching Vivian and asking how she's doing.

Vivian is clearly anxious to talk to her father – she's practically vibrating with anticipation, but she stays in her seat, not being pushy. Derek supposes the child of two doctors has been trained not to interfere with phone calls.

Maybe one day they can teach Zola that too.

Derek hands over the phone as soon as he can; he can only hear Vivian's side of the conversation, interspersed with long pauses where he presumes Mark is speaking.

"Daddy!" Viv clutches the phone with both hands. "Are you coming to … yeah … yeah, I am … no … okay … but when?"

After a few moments of this, she hands the phone back to Derek. "He wants to talk to you," she says.

Mark tells him he can get there by noon. "Amy's going to come for a few hours, so … ." He stops talking. "I don't know how to thank you," he adds, his voice breaking a little.

"You don't have to thank us," Derek says heartily. "Viv has been great. Zola is going to be sad when she goes."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Vivian watching him.

"Have lunch with us," Derek suggests to Mark; he sees Viv's solemn little face light up when she hears the suggestion.

"Okay," Mark says tentatively. "Yeah, okay, I can do that."

…

Outside, it's pushing ninety with a dripping humidity index – the opposite of welcoming. Vivian is too tightly wound in anticipation of Mark's arrival to do much other than go down to the building's playroom with Zola and run off some of her anxious energy. They invent a game Derek doesn't understand that has something to do with the sun, and involves a lot of circling each other and spinning around, as well as contagious peals of laughter from Zola.

Viv runs over every so often to check the time. She waits for noon like it's Christmas, stalking the entryway like a little cat; she's already standing by the door when the concierge calls up to announce Mark's arrival.

When Derek finally pulls the door open, Vivian throws herself at her father before he can even cross the threshold.

Mark's face is pale and drawn, Derek notices, but he has a genuine smile for his daughter, scooping her up and holding her close. He gives her a long hug before he walks into the apartment, Viv still hanging tightly to his neck when he does.

"Hey," he says to Derek, nodding in greeting. With some effort, he shifts Viv to his side so he can see the others. Meredith and Zola join them, and he offers Zola a hand for a high-five, which she gives him enthusiastically.

From the looks of Mark, he hasn't slept much in Viv's absence. The greying beard on his gaunt face reminds Derek of his own age; the three young medical students fade from his memory again and he feels the weight of the years between them.

The years, and their history.

"I went swimming!" Zola bellows happily, immune to the tension in the foyer.

"Yeah?" Mark smiles at her, then nudges Viv. "You too?"

She nods, and he strokes her cheek. "You got some sun, huh?" He smiles at Viv, who ducks her head against him.

"There were _big_ girls in the pool," Zola tells Mark, happy for a larger audience. She stretches her little arms as high as they go to indicate her cousins' height.

"The kids were there?" Mark's eyes widen, glancing at Derek.

"Not all of them – but a good showing. They were impressed with Viv's skills in the pool."

"She's a pretty good swimmer. Keeps me on my toes." Mark kisses the top of Vivian's head, then sets her on her feet. Derek picks up his hint.

"Zozo … you want to go play with Viv?"

She nods enthusiastically and grabs Vivian's hand. Viv looks up at Mark anxiously; he gives her an encouraging nod.

Mark is quiet for a moment, watching Viv disappear with Zola into the other room. They can see Zola diving into the basket of plastic groceries, drawing Vivian into her world.

Then Mark glances at Derek. His eyes look shadowed, exhausted. "Thank you," he says hoarsely, "for taking her and …" he pauses, shaking his head. "It was okay?"

Derek nods. "She swam a lot," he reports, "with my sisters' kids." He fills him in a bit on the previous day. "And, uh," he starts, making a game time decision to warn Mark in case Vivian brings it up, "she saw some old pictures when we were at Liz's place."

He feels protective of his sister; it's not like she put the photograph in front of Vivian on purpose.

Mark nods, looking expectant.

"You know, just old group shots – the beach house, my mom's sixtieth … and Vivian asked about why her mother was in the pictures."

"Oh." Mark seems to get it now. "Did you, um – "

"No," Derek says quickly. "I did mention that the three of us knew each other. In medical school."

 _The three of us._ He almost smiles – how long has it been since the three of them were a _three of us_?

"Right. Thanks for being … sensitive, you know, about that," Mark says. "I haven't told her – I mean, I don't think she's ready to hear about … well, ready for the story."

"Right."

The children are playing in the living room, but he's aware they have little privacy and not for long. Taking a careful step closer to Mark, he lowers his voice.

"And Addison…" he asks quietly, not needing to finish the sentence.

"I don't know." He grips the counter for a moment, his knuckles going white against his tan. "No change. Some of her numbers were improving but they don't think she's ready to come off it yet. They're, uh, running tests, and one of the specialists we saw abroad is flying in."

"Are you sure you want to take Vivian back with you? We can keep her longer," Derek says, glancing at Meredith first and receiving a quick nod. "We're happy to."

"You've done enough. More than enough." He pauses. "And Amy's around, so…"

"She's helping out?" Derek tries to keep his voice neutral.

Mark nods. "She's Amy." He shrugs a little. "She kind of does her own thing. You know her."

 _Not really_ , Derek thinks. He's not sure he's known her in a long time. The closest he's felt to her in years was their shared experience at Nancy's house, trying to help their nephew.

The last week and a half have felt endless and brief all at once. From the first cryptic phone call with Mark, back in Seattle, he's had to tiptoe around _confusing_ on a daily basis. An hourly one, even. He glances at Mark, listens to the sounds of the children playing in the other room. Mark and Vivian have traveled from confusing to familiar, somehow, over the course of their time in New York.

And seeing Vivian with Zola, it feels right that they opened their home to her.

Mark seems to be thinking the same thing. "It means a lot," he says quietly. "What you did for her – she won't go with just anyone. She's, uh, she's having a hard time," he admits, though it's clear, "and what you and Meredith did … it means a lot," he repeats.

Derek isn't sure how to respond, but Meredith appears in the doorway just then with a fussing Zola, mooting the issue.

" _Not_ tired," Zola whines tiredly, pulling at Meredith's shirt, apparently well aware of her mother's intentions.

"Oh, I can tell," Derek leans over to kiss her soft cheek. "You want me to put her down, or …?"

"No, I have her." Meredith hoists Zola higher on her hip. "I'll be back."

"You wore her out, huh?" Mark teases Viv, who's hanging close to his side. She shrugs, leaning against him. "I heard the two of you swam a lot yesterday."

Viv nods. "Zola's a really good swimmer," she says loyally; Derek is touched by her statement, even if it's stretching the truth.

Vivian looks up at Derek.

"Will Zola nap for a long time?" she asks in her husky little voice.

"I doubt it." Derek smiles down at Vivian. "She'll be awake for lunch."

Vivian nods.

"You hungry?" Mark asks, and his daughter shakes her head. "If we stay for lunch, you need to eat something," he barters.

"I will," she says immediately. Mark looks mildly satisfied, though still a bit distracted.

Derek orders food and pours a coffee for Mark, who lowers himself into one of the kitchen chairs.

Viv climbs onto his lap as soon as he sits down. Derek, for lack of anything more useful to do, sits down with them, and he and Mark carry on the sort of mindless back and forth that society dictates should take the place of the fear and confusion attendant to illness.

Safe topics include: weather, sports, and the steadily climbing price of living in Manhattan.

Vivian is quiet as the two men talk, leaning against her father with one hand holding onto his shirt as if to make sure he's staying.

Meredith rejoins them. "Zola's asleep. Reluctantly – she didn't want to miss the fun."

"All she missed was some boring adult conversation – right, Viv?" Derek smiles at the little girl, who looks at him with an expression he can't identify.

Mark stands up, tipping Vivian carefully back onto her feet. "I should make a quick call," he says.

"Daddy…"

"You want privacy?" Derek glances from Mark to his phone, then suggests one of the empty bedrooms.

Viv is still pulling at her father's hand, trying to get his attention. "Daddy," she repeats.

"Yeah." He strokes the top of her head distractedly, then leans down a little to hear her. "What is it, baby?"

"Am I an adulterous love child?"

She stumbles a little over the words, but their meaning is unfortunately clear.

A moment of suffocating silence follows.

Then Mark moves his hand from Viv's hair to her chin, tilting it up to see her face.

"Where did you hear that?"

Mark's voice is quiet, but dangerous, and Viv seems to realize her mistake right away. She doesn't answer her father's question, but she's only five years old – she can't seem to help her gaze flickering over to Derek.

Later Derek will say there was a crazy minute when he still thought everything would be fine.

That it could all be explained.

He'd tell Mark about the conversation with his mother he didn't realize Vivian could hear, he'd apologize for not being more discreet in his terminology, explain that he had actually been defending Vivian's innocence, how she deserved their kindness, and everything would be fine.

But that doesn't happen.

Instead, the air in the room stays charged and silent for only seconds.

The color drains from Mark's face.

"Get your shoes on," he tells his daughter abruptly before Derek can say anything. "We're leaving."

"What?" Viv stares up at him. "Why?"

"Never mind why. Where are your things?"

Mark says her name again impatiently when she doesn't move, and then reaches for her.

"No, I want to stay here!" Vivian pulls away from him and he catches her arm, preventing her from running off. Her voice trembles. "You _said_ we could stay for lunch."

"Well, we can't. We're leaving – cut it out, Viv!"

But she's still struggling in Mark's grasp; with a frustrated exhale, he picks her up – she's still barefoot, buddy taped toes and all, and turns toward the kitchen door.

"No, I don't want to go," Viv cries.

Derek is frozen in place.

"Mark," Meredith pleads calmly, her voice cutting through his paralysis, "she needs her shoes. Let me just get her things."

"No," Vivian whimpers, kicking at Mark – Derek winces at the two buddy-taped toes – but Mark just holds her tighter in response, snapping at her to be still, and stalks down the hallway toward the door.

Derek regains his footing and beats them there: he's not slowed by a struggling child.

"Mark…" Derek's hand is braced on the door; it still seems possible to get his old friend to understand.

But when Mark looks at him his eyes are furious – not a cold fury; underneath, they're heated with pain.

" _I told her the three of us knew each other_ ," he paraphrases Derek's words brokenly, shaking his head as if he can't process it.

"That _is_ what I said!"

"You still hate us this much," Mark whispers, "that you would hurt our child, when she's – I _trusted_ you with her, and you said – and you told her – "

"That's not what happened," Derek protests, trying to keep his tone calm for Vivian's sake. "It's not how it sounds. Look, I know that's what everyone says, but it's true. If you just let me explain – "

"Get away from the door," Mark warns. "We're leaving."

"No, Daddy," Vivian is sobbing now, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt. "Please, I want to stay with my friends."

"They're not your friends," Mark snaps, "and you're not staying."

"Mark, you need to give me a chance to explain." Derek is standing between Mark and the door.

"No. I don't. _You_ need to stay away from my family," Mark growls at the door. "Like I asked you to the first time."

He did ask that.

And then he let them in, and they opened a door that had been closed for seven years. A door like the one Derek isn't going to be able to block. Not for much longer.

Vivian's hoarse cries are louder than Derek's voice, but he tries one last time to make things right.

"Mark," he implores, as if speaking his name will change things, make the other man stop and listen – but like the night years ago when it was Mark calling Derek's name to no avail, he doesn't listen.

His old friend meets his eyes for one brief moment, a stranger again.

And Derek realizes … they've run out of time once more.

The door slams behind them, but Vivian's wails echo all the way down the hall.

* * *

 _To be continued. This chapter was difficult to write for a variety of reasons - and even though I planned the last scene more or less from the story's conception, I still struggled with putting it to paper (well, screen). Stick with me and this story and I **will** __get them through this. (** Added in response to guest reviewer Pat: if you want to re-read the conversation between Derek and his mother in which he refers to Vivian as an adulterous love child, it's toward the end of Chapter 33. **) Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you will review and share your thoughts. I love hearing what you think, and I appreciate all of you for reading!_


	38. broken crown

_**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and encouragement. I know it's become a long beast of a story, but all its threads and separate paths are leading somewhere together. I hope you enjoy this (huge) chapter.**_

* * *

 _broken crown  
_...

* * *

At first, they're frozen.

No one speaks until the audible _ding_ of the elevator down the hall, the one that announces when someone leaves, the one that confirms that Mark and Vivian are gone.

Meredith's eyes are on Derek, who looks stricken. And she's holding two small flip flops in one of her hands, the ones she scooped from the floor of the junior bedroom. They're pale pink rubber; this close she can see a faded pattern of clovers.

Clovers. For good luck? Vivian could use some luck, Meredith can't help thinking. Viv – and her whole family too.

The pain in her husband's face stings her. In the chaotic aftermath of Vivian's innocent repetition of that provocative phrase, Mark's anger and Derek's unsuccessful attempts to explain himself, Meredith was focused on pragmatics. Logistics.

Vivian needed shoes.

But she didn't, Meredith supposes, because Mark carried her out of there barefoot, without any of the clothes or personal effects the little girl was keeping at their apartment. He ran out of there like something was chasing them.

Maybe something was.

"Derek," she says softly.

"I didn't say it." He turns to her, his eyes bleak. "Meredith, you know I never would have – "

"Of course you didn't. _Derek_ ," she says again, more firmly this time. "I know you didn't. I _know_ you," she adds when he looks uncertain. She crosses the small space between them and brings her free hand to his face.

"I remembered as soon as she repeated it. That phrase, I – I did say it," he admits. "I said it to my mother." He sounds haunted. "She was asking me about Viv, asking and asking … as if it's strange that we were looking after her, with the history, and implying that…" his voice trails off. "I would never have said it if I thought she could hear us. She was playing with Zola."

"Of course you wouldn't have."

Now guilt surges through Meredith; Derek can't know, not like she does, that Vivian – in the tradition of children from whom painful truths are being kept – is an experienced eavesdropper. She thinks of some of the things Vivian repeated to her, cheeks flushing. The way the little girl ducked her head, embarrassed, when Meredith gently suggested that _overhearing_ would be difficult in a home the size of the Sloans' townhouse.

"Derek, it's okay. You'll explain, when he's ready to hear it, and Mark will understand."

"I doubt that." Derek is looking down at his hands, and Meredith thinks about how long it was since Derek last spoke to Mark. The status of their relationship, whatever it is, feels unconventional, but Mark trusted them with Vivian. It was Derek he called to rescue his frightened child from the emergency room and provide her with as much stability as they could while her mother fought for her life.

That's what Mark said; Meredith heard only the last part, at the door, _we trusted you with our child._

She swallows hard. "If you give it time …"

But her voice trails off. Time feels finite and small, for their time in New York. Quite possibly, and darkly, for the Sloans too.

"Mommy?"

Meredith turns at the sleep-hoarse little voice.

"Zozo, you're up," she says warmly.

Derek's face changes, a smile softening the lines of guilt and shame. "Hi, sweetie. Did you have a nice nap?"

Zola climbs warily into Derek's arms, looking around the empty foyer.

"Where'd Vivi go?"

Derek and Meredith exchange a look.

"She, uh, she had to leave with her daddy, Zozo, so she couldn't stay for lunch."

"No!" Zola's face crumples. "No, she's _here_!"

"Sweetie, you'll see her soon," Meredith assures her daughter, hoping she won't do irreparable damage if Mark decides never to speak to them again.

Zola is far from comforted by the empty promise, dissolving into bewildered tears that are only prevented from turning into a full-fledged tantrum when the doorman calls up to announce that their order of Chinese delivery has arrived. Sniffling dramatically, Zola consents to sit on her mother's lap and eat bits of beef and broccoli and dumplings that her father cuts into small pieces for her.

"Where'd Vivi go?" she asks again, searching her parents' faces.

 _Oh, boy._

The pit in her stomach confirms … it's going to be a long afternoon.

…

They need fresh air, Derek decrees, a distraction, and with the passing of another hour that makes unfortunately clear Mark isn't coming back, Meredith agrees. Outside their building, on the steaming sidewalk, there's air, yes … but it's not exactly fresh.

More like stale. And humid as hell – Meredith figures alliteration makes up for the crude description, and anyway she's heard it out of the mouths of multiple people just on this walk alone. Sweat gathers at the nape of her neck and trickles down her back; Zola's hand turns hot and sticky within hers.

"Hot," her daughter whines, less than halfway to their proposed river destination.

"It will be cooler on the water," Derek promises.

Zola looks unconvinced, and reaches for her mother at the next intersection.

"Up," she begs, tugging on Meredith's shirt.

"It's too hot." Derek puts out a hand when Meredith starts to crouch to lift their daughter.

Slightly taken aback, she gives him a quizzical look.

"It's hot, and you're sweating," he says reasonably, "we're not even halfway there, and you're walking for two already."

 _Walking for two._

Zola, picking up on hopefully little more than an imminent denial of her request, starts to whimper.

"Daddy will carry you," Derek offers, but Zola balks, squirming and struggling in his arms.

"No, Mommy!" she whines, kicking. "Mommy will carry me!"

"Zozo, it's too hot for this," Derek tells her calmly.

"No!" Zola yells.

"Do you want to go home?"

Zola bursts into tears in response.

"This might not have been the best idea," Meredith offers tentatively, swiping sweat-damp hair from her forehead and looking from her husband's patient but frustrated expression to Zola's miserable little face, pudgy fists balled up against her streaming eyes.

"Maybe not."

They agree without words to find somewhere to cool off.

Zola tires herself out quickly; she's resting quietly against Derek's shoulder when they duck into the first coffee shop they see, a welcome blast of cold air hitting all three of them.

It's the same little deli-type spot she's been seeing all over, with a somewhat sketchy-looking salad bar and rows of dusty glass beverage cases. Meredith doesn't even raise an eyebrow when Derek lets Zola select a chocolate milk; he purchases an iced coffee for himself and water for Meredith, who begs off anything with more flavor. The heat is making her queasy.

"Ginger ale?" Derek prods gently when they're seated and Zola is back to being Zola, sitting on her father's lap and humming quietly to herself between eager sips of chocolate milk.

"No, I'm fine." Meredith sips the mercifully cold water.

"We should probably turn around," Derek says quietly. "It won't be that much cooler by the river, and she's tired."

"No, boats," Zola says firmly, picking up on the conversation immediately.

Meredith and Derek exchange a look that's equal parts amused and wary – Zola's increased comprehension is remarkable, it's fulfilling in a way that she's not sure anything else could be – but it's also alarming, leaving their formerly private exchanges open to their daughter's ears.

"Boats, Daddy," Zola says again, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt. "You said tugboats."

"We can go see the boats," Derek tells her, "but it's going to be hot outside. Hot and yucky."

"Yucky," Zola agrees, giggling. "It's _too_ hot."

They make it to the water, Zola apparently replenished enough from her chocolate milk to walk on her own, between her parents when she can. Crowds thin out the further they walk until it's perfectly possible to walk three abreast without crashing into anyone or anything.

"Boats!" Zola yells joyfully. "Look, Daddy, _ferryboats_! Mommy, look!"

Both parents express the type of effusive admiration Zola tends require, and she beams in response.

"We can ride on it," she chatters, "let's go ride on it!"

Meredith catches Derek's eye and has to stifle a grin as the large garbage barge – decidedly _not_ a ferryboat – makes its slow way across the river.

Derek holds Zola carefully up to the railing so she can see better, and they pass long moments together just watching the boats, listening to and occasionally Greek-chorus-responding to Zola's observation.

Chiming music cuts the air at one point, piped in from a truck.

"Sir Tastee," Derek says, shaking his head. "Ice cream truck. Sounds like they haven't changed their tune since I left New York." He pauses, looking amused. "I suppose that's where that expression comes from."

Zola, who seems to have a child's natural ability to know when ice cream is near, goes into paroxysms of delight as they make their way to the truck.

Meredith accepts a bright red popsicle on Zola's behalf, shaking her head when the man asks if she wants anything else.

"But Mommy is too skinny, she needs some ice cream," the man says, smiling at Zola under a handlebar mustache.

Meredith swallows her annoyance until they're back on the river path.

"Nancy said I gained the perfect amount of weight for where I am in the pregnancy," she says.

"Of course you did." Derek glances at her. "You're not going to let that bother you, are you?"

"What if it does? Bother me, I mean."

He looks like he's not sure what to say.

"I'm sorry. Never mind." She's tired, more tired than she realized, and it's not Derek's fault. She doesn't do this, doesn't snap at him when she's tired or play games with him, foisting hypotheticals like weapons. That's not who she is and it's not what her marriage is.

"Mer…"

But she waves a dismissive hand, turning to their daughter.

"Zozo … can I have a bite?"

"No," Zola teases, holding it out of reach, but then immediately pushes her ice pop close to her mother. "Here!"

"Mmm, delicious." Meredith licks some of the popsicle juice that's running down Zola's bare arm too, and her daughter shrieks with laughter in response.

"We should probably just dip her in the river to clean her off at this rate," Derek says, smiling at their daughter, who has now taken it upon herself to squat in the scrubby grass by the wrought iron benches, dirt and bits of greenery stuck to her little knit shorts, a parade of red ice pop particles making their way down her polka dot shirt and decorating most of her blissed out face.

"The river doesn't look very clean."

"Neither does our baby," Derek reminds her.

"Not a baby," Meredith corrects him in Zola's parlance and he smiles at her, his hand coming to rest on the small swell of her belly.

"You're doing everything right," he tells her quietly. "You know people are going to have opinions, unsolicited opinions – _stupid_ opinions. They're just noise, though, and you have to ignore them."

 _But what if they're not?_

"Is that what you think about Addison?"

Derek looks confused. "What does Addison have to do with this?"

"I don't know." Meredith looks down at her hands, then back out at the river. "It just made me think. _Unsolicited opinions_ and all that."

"Mark's opinions, you mean?" Derek asks.

Meredith doesn't answer. "He could take over her treatment now," she says carefully, "couldn't he? If he wanted, I mean. Couldn't he request that they treat the cancer and … "

Her voice trails off; she can't say _terminate the pregnancy_ , not when she felt the baby kick, not when the unborn boy is so clearly alive to both Addison and Vivian.

"I don't know," Derek says. "It's complicated. We had a case in New York … " he stops talking, and she watches him watch the water, looking at a memory she can't see. "It gets complicated in the second trimester," he concludes finally. "It wouldn't be as simple as Mark telling the doctors to terminate the pregnancy and start chemo."

He says it so bluntly and he should, they're doctors, but _terminate the pregnancy_ still makes her uncomfortable. It's so clinical, so cold, for sixteen and a half weeks of _my baby brother_ and _his name is Isaac._

"Does the name Isaac mean anything to you?" she asks abruptly.

"Isaac?" Derek ponders this. "No. It's biblical, I suppose. But other than that, no. Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

"Are you thinking about that name for Junior?" Derek asks, a smile starting on his face. "Because –"

" _No_ , Derek," she interrupts sharply, interrupting him; his face telegraphs hurt and confusion at her tone.

"Hormones," she says weakly by way of excuse, and she loves him even a little more when he doesn't push it, just rests a reassuring hand on her thigh and directs his attention to a passing tugboat.

…

The doorman's buzz makes all three Shepherds lift their heads at once from the puzzle they've been arranging on the floor.

"Vivi?" Zola asks hopefully.

Derek and Meredith exchange a glance. He's texted Mark a few times since he left, a heartfelt apology without excuse, an offer to help where he can, but hasn't heard anything back. Still, maybe …

It's not Mark, though.

"Amy." Derek opens the door wider; his elusive sister looks a bit wilted by the heat, dark hair piled on her head, shirt damp with perspiration. "Where have you been?"

She shakes her head at him, ignoring his question and looking utterly unapologetic for her unexplained absence. She counters with a question of her own, crossing the threshold of the apartment without an invitation: "Derek … what did you do?"

"What did _I_ do?" Derek repeats, incredulous. "What are you – "

"Aunt Amy!" Zola yells, bounding into the hallway, apparently having decided one of Derek's sisters is a reasonable substitute for Vivian. She's become expert at naming each Shepherd sibling, and isn't half bad with the cousins either.

"Hey, kid." Amy smiles at her niece.

Zola beams back at her hopefully. "Present?"

"Ooh, she's well-trained." Amy raises at eyebrow at Derek, then turns back to Zola. "You know what, kiddo, I don't have Aunt Kathy's disposable income."

"Amy." Derek shakes his head, then leans down to scoop up his daughter. "Zozo … it's not very nice to ask for presents."

"Why?"

Her little face is genuinely curious.

"Because … "

"Because Aunt Amy might not know you're happy to see her," Meredith intervenes, smiling at their daughter. "Hi, Amy."

"Okay," Zola says amiably.

"Maybe this will do until I start making surgeon change again." Amy reaches into the canvas bag slung over her shoulder and hauls out a small paper-wrapped package.

Zola bounces with excitement in Derek's arms. "A present! A present!"

"What do you say, Zo?"

"ThankyouAuntAmy," Zola says all in one breath, tearing like a little pterodactyl at the wrapping and then shouting with joy when she unwraps a half a dozen slices of miniaturized but realistic looking rubber bacon sitting in a small pink plastic frying pan.

" _Thank_ you!" she says again. "Mommy, help!" and she thrusts the package at Meredith to remove the protective bubble.

"Bacon?" Derek raises an eyebrow at his sister. "Really?"

Amy shrugs. "All kids like play food, don't they?"

It's hard to deny Zola's reaction.

"So … what can I do for you?" Derek asks her. "Other than let you bribe my child."

"I'm her aunt, it's my job." Amy pauses. "I heard about what happened."

"Yes, I got that impression." Derek exchanges a glance with Meredith, who nods.

"Hey, Zozo … let's take your present to your room."

Zola leaves willingly hand in hand with her mother, but her indignant little voice carries across the apartment: "That's not my room, that's _Vivi's_ room."

Amy raises an eyebrow at Derek, who ignores the provocation and concentrates on putting up a pot of coffee. His sister watches him, surprisingly not pushing him until the coffee starts percolating.

"Where's Mom?"

"At Liz's. She's staying there until her post-op appointment tomorrow." Derek glances at his sister. "You're not in touch with her?"

"What does that mean?"

Answering a question with a question. No wonder none of the siblings could pin down what Amy was up to. Now that it's just the two of them, he lowers his voice.

"Where have you been?"

"What do you mean?"

"Damn it, Amy, would you just – " he stops, takes a breath. "You weren't there, which is why we ended up with Vivian, Kathleen was all over me about you, and this can't be good for Mom – "

"Mom's fine," Amy says, but her voice shakes a little.

"Amy." He stares at her, recognition dawning. "It's something to do with Jesse, isn't it? You're involved …" he shakes his head. "Nancy's actually going to kill you, you do realize that, right?"

"She's not going to kill me." Amy stares at the coffeepot as if it holds the answers. "She, uh, she knows."

This is news to him. "Knows what?" he pauses. "Where is Jess anyway? Nancy said she was keeping him home, when we were leaving …"

"Derek, I can't talk about this."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't."

"Why does everything have to be such a big secret with you, Amy?" he asks irritably.

"I don't know, why does everyone involve me in their secrets?" she counters pointedly.

It's a clear as a bell segue to the Sloans, but a rebellious corner of him makes her bring it up instead of taking the lead. It's a moment before she picks up the rope, but she does in the end.

"Derek … what happened with Mark?"

He stares at the coffee maker as dark liquid starts to drip into the carafe. "I thought you said you heard about what happened."

"Not from you."

"It was a misunderstanding." Derek leans against the counter, not meeting his sister's eyes. "Vivian overheard something … careless and Mark misunderstood the context and left before I could explain."

"So you didn't really – "

"Of course not, Amy," he says irritably. "Is that really what you think of me? That I make a habit of going around traumatizing little girls about the circumstances of their conception?"

She doesn't respond and he feels compelled to keep defending himself.

"I didn't say it to her, I had no idea she was listening, and I only said it because – they wouldn't stop harping. All of you. Mom, and you girls – "

"What did I do?" Amy asks, sounding offended and very much like her childhood self when she was accused – almost always accurately – of some behavioral transgression.

"Not you," Derek admits. "Kathy, and Liz. And Mom. They were on me, about how _kind_ it was for us to watch Vivian, trying to get me to say it bothered me, that she … I don't know, that she exists?"

He pauses to draw a shaking breath, realizing he's angrier than he thought at first.

Amy is just watching him. "I guess I'd be pretty insulted too if everyone was shocked that I was a halfway decent person," she says casually, and he almost laughs.

"Don't hold back, Amy."

"You know I never do." She pauses. "But if it matters … it never surprised me," she says quietly.

He glances at her. "Maybe it should have."

"No. I wasn't surprised that you were taking care of her. You did basically stalk them when Mark was avoiding you," Amy says, smiling a little bit. "So no, I wasn't surprised. I was surprised when Mark said – but I knew there would be an explanation."

"He didn't believe it," Derek says.

"Did he hear it?"

"No," Derek admits. "But he still didn't believe it."

Amy looks at him. "Mark _believes_ that people are lying in wait to attack him over what he and Addison did."

After all this time? The thought makes him sad. "Well, it's not Vivian's fault. None of it is." Derek finds himself haunted the image of the little girl who looks so much like Mark, with her sad little pointed face, her husky-voiced conversations with Zola – seventy to eighty percent Zola, of course, with Vivian chiming in for support. She was so patient, so good with the younger girl when they played.

"How, um, how is she? She was pretty upset when they left."

"She's … pretty upset," Amy says. "Mark won't let her see Addison," she adds.

"And you disagree?"

"I disagree," Amy says, "but I don't tell him I disagree."

"Why not?"

"You saw how he reacted last night, Derek, do you think he's really open to being challenged right now?"

Derek considers this. "But you – you know them, it's different. You've been in Viv's life."

"It's complicated," Amy says.

For a moment there's silence, weighty with shared past.

"You were Vivian's age," Derek says quietly, finally.

Amy is looking just past him, out the windows at the grey stack-block view. "I know."

When she looks back there are tears in her eyes.

"Amy…"

"No, it's okay," she says. "And I don't know whether it's better that I … saw, or whether it would have been better to be Lizzie. Just get a call, and then …"

Her voice trails off.

"It can't have been better," Derek says grimly, "to see what you saw."

He's coming close to violating their unspoken agreement not to talk about their father's death. Their joint witness bound them together but it separated them, too. That was what his mother used to say, when Amy was sick –

Because to Carolyn, Amy's addiction, her downward spiral, was a _sickness_ , and she was patient and tolerant of it.

 _It's hard for Derek,_ that's what she would say. His mother was never particularly close to Addison – and Addison correctly interpreted his mother's discomfort, her distance, but Amy's _sickness_ brought them together. He and Addison had some terrible fights about it; her fears and forgiveness, her insistence on being involved when he wanted to do nothing more than was his hands of his sister.

It must have seemed cruel, and he was never able to put it into words. _I can't see Amy suffer. I'm supposed to be the one who keeps her quiet._ Suffering is loud, explosive, and their lifeblood depended on the undependable: on Amy shutting up. On his making her shut up. It wasn't easy: he had a perfect, painful impression of her top teeth on his third finger for weeks.

"Mark wants to protect her," Amy admits. "He wants to pretend it's not happening, but it's _happening_ , Derek, she's on a vent but she's still growing that damn alien baby-"

"Jesus, Amy!"

She stops talking at his outburst. "What? It's weird. Let's face it: _they're_ weird."

"I don't know what you're trying to do," he tells his sister, "but stop it."

"I'm not trying to do anything."

"Well, then I don't need to hear this."

"Maybe you do. They need _more_ people in their lives, Derek, not fewer."

"What do you want me to do?" he asks, feeling defensive again. "I tried. I've texted him. I'm not going to stalk him."

"Why?" she challenges. "You did before, when he was ignoring you."

"That was different."

"Why?"

"Because – well …" his voice trails off.

 _For Mom. Because Mom wanted Addison to operate on her, and Mark was the only way to get to Addison._

"Because you wanted something from him," Amy says callously; she's never been one to sugarcoat. "You were willing to stalk him then."

"That was then. He made it very clear he _doesn't_ want to talk to me now, Amy. You weren't here; you didn't hear him."

"He may not want to, but he needs to."

Derek's not sure what to say.

Amy just sips contemplatively from her mug. "You know this coffee sucks, right?"

"You know you don't make things very easy," he tells his sister.

"Family trait, I guess." She shrugs, then sets her mug down and surprises him by standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "You'll figure it out," she says.

…

"Amy left?"

Derek nods.

"Did she ..."

"No," Derek says, shaking his head ruefully. "She raked me over the coals a little ... and maybe told me to stalk Mark." He sighs. "I don't know."

"I don't know either," Meredith admits. "I don't know the best way to – how to help them, you know? But thinking about them knocking around in that big house … if they're even there, I mean, are they living at the hospital?"

"Amy thinks Vivian should see Addison," Derek says without preamble.

Meredith nods. "What about Mark?"

"He doesn't. Not until – I mean, not _unless_ – it's necessary."

He doesn't say: _to say goodbye._

But he doesn't have to; Meredith gets it. She worries her lower lip between her teeth, trying not to think about that prospect.

"I think we should leave them alone," Derek says.

She disagrees but she can't put her finger on why, and she recognizes that these are Derek's … people, for lack of a better term, that he knows them far better than she does. She's certain she wasn't wrong about the connection she established with Vivian, but Mark and Addison? She's barely spoken to them.

"Zola misses Vivian," Meredith says tentatively.

"Zola misses Big Bird when we turn off _Sesame Street_ ," Derek says and looks hurt when Meredith frowns at him. "What?"

"Nothing." She touches his hand. "We're not in New York much longer, Derek. You don't want to – "

 _leave like this,_ but she doesn't finish the sentence. She's never known someone the way she knows Derek, so intimately and all at once, so that their words are caught up in each other's and sentences are mostly courtesy.

"You remember what happened when Zola was little, before you learned to do her hair?" She doesn't wait for Derek to respond, just repeats the story both he and Bailey told her. "You snapped at those strangers. You thought they were insulting Zola, insulting you, but they weren't. You were trying to protect her, though."

"It's not the same," Derek says quietly. "Those women were strangers. Mark and I - "

He's not sure how to finish that sentence.

Neither is Meredith. They have _history,_ that's for certain.

But does that make it easier or harder to forgive?

For a few moments, both of them are silent. It's clear neither of them knows the best way to proceed.

"Day by day," Derek says finally.

"Hm?"

" _Day by day_ ," he repeats. "It's something my mother used to say. If it's too hard to think out ahead, well, just take it day by day."

Meredith considers this; not for the first time, she wonders what it would have been like to have a parents whose approach to life could result in health, or even happiness.

"Poor Viv," Derek says.

Yeah … that just about sums it up.

…

Vivian's absence is most noticeable at night; each of them carefully walking past the little room assigned to her under their care. It was supposed to be Zola's but Zola shows no interest in sleeping in it, though she tugs on Derek's hand when he's taking her to brush her teeth, leading him to the room.

It's untouched since Mark left with Vivian the day before. Derek's a little uncomfortable to note the similarities between this room and the bedroom Viv showed him at the Sloans' townhouse. Both empty of their occupant, both seeming tributes to a role they no longer played. The pink puffy comforter is drawn up with commendable neatness for a small child.

He hears Vivian's hoarse little voice, and then his own finishing the aphorism: _My mom always makes the bed. She says if you start the day by making the bed, then you'll do good things all day._

Resting against the pillows is Vivian's furry black and white panda with its pink-stitched smile.

 _My stuff,_ Vivian sobbed when Mark was making his hasty exit, but Derek realizes he's just putting the import together now. He remembers Viv's protest when Mark asked Derek to take her from the emergency room the night Addison's breathing problems started, and Viv's refusal to sleep without her panda. _No, I can't,_ that's what she said when Mark asked if she could sleep without it for one night.

Derek smiles reassuringly at Zola, with a confidence he doesn't feel, as his daughter approached the bed and pats the furry panda with one little hand. "Night, Vivi," she says, then looks up at her father. "Say good night," she instructs him.

Feeling a bit foolish – not to mention guilty – he drops into a squat by the child-sized bed. "Good night … Viv," he says to the panda at Zola's prompt, her name catching in his throat a bit.

Zola nods, then holds her arms up to be lifted. Derek holds her tightly for a moment, letting her warm little octopus grip reassure him of her presence, her reality and her _okay_ ness, and then takes her to brush her teeth, closing the door behind him on the room that's taking on an uneasy mausoleum quality.

Despite the discomfiting experience in the junior bedroom, he finds himself exhausted enough that he thinks he'll fall asleep quickly, Zola snoring lightly into his arm, one of her little legs flung over her mother.

A quick glance at Meredith makes sleep feel far away. Her face is tight with concern.

"Mer…"

She looks over at him.

"It's okay," he says, wishing he had something better to offer.

"I wonder where they're sleeping tonight," Meredith says finally.

Derek thinks it might more likely be _if_ than _where_ , but he doesn't harp on it, just reaches for his wife's hand and waits until her stiff fingers relax into his before he lets sleep overtake him.

…

"You're up early." Derek meets her in the kitchen the next morning, his gaze skimming over her face. "You feel okay?"

"I feel fine," Meredith says tightly. "Just – awake." She sips her mug of decaf. "Zozo's still sleeping?"

"Like a little log," Derek reports. "I think she sleeps better here."

"Because we don't make her sleep in her own bed," Meredith points out, smiling. She catches Derek's eye.

"I'm feeling a little – do you mind if I take a walk or something?" she asks.

"A walk?" Derek looks puzzled. "Sure. Should I wake Zola or do you want to wait?"

"I kind of meant just me," Meredith explains gently. "Like … alone."

"Oh." Derek nods. "Well, yes. Of course." He pauses. "Mom's appointment –"

"-two-thirty," Meredith says. "I know. I'll be back hours before then, I'm just going for a walk."

Derek is studying her face. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

"I'm positive." She leans in for a kiss. "I'll wait for Zola to wake up."

With perfect timing, Zola yells for them at that exact moment. Meredith stays through the beginning of their daughter's breakfast, sharing laughter and a bowl of cereal at once, assuring both members of her little family that she'll be back soon.

"Where are you walking?" Derek asks with what sounds like studied casualness.

"Probably to the river," Meredith says, resting a hand on the door. "I could use some fresh air."

In the lobby, she says a reluctant farewell to the chilled air, pushes her way through the revolving door, and is instantly swallowed up in the relentless humidity.

Drawing a deep breath to fortify herself, she turns and walks west – away from the river.

And keeps walking.

…

Finding the hospital is easy; she feels less like she's walking there and more like she's being drawn.

Folding herself in the trail of people entering its automatic doors and flinching at the meatlocker chill of the lobby isn't hard either.

"Can I help you?"

The security desk is a little more complicated.

"Addison … Montgomery," she says, recalling the quadruple-barreled name on the divorce petition she discovered in Derek's trailer what feels like a lifetime ago. "Or Sloan." She realizes she's not sure.

"Just Montgomery," a voice she recognizes chimes in over her shoulder. "She said one hyphenation was enough for a lifetime."

"Amy." Meredith turns with surprise, a guilty flush starting in her cheeks, especially when her gaze drops and she sees Vivian standing next to Derek's sister, looking tired and not particularly clean. Her long hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she's wearing different flip flops – of course, her pink ones are still in the Shepherds' temporary apartment. The ones on her feet now are green and white striped with green grosgrain ribbon between her toes. Meredith notices the buddy tape she affixed to the little girl's broken toe looks grubby and worn.

"Hi, Viv," she says softly.

Vivian doesn't answer, just leans against Amy's side and gives Meredith a brief scan. If her expression is anything to go by, she's not particularly impressed. Meredith watches as the little girl's thumb drifts toward her mouth.

Viv looks up at Amy nervously for a moment, her thumb hovering, then jams it between her lips almost angrily.

Amy meets Meredith's eye. "Mark thinks she should stop sucking her thumb," she says easily, "but _I_ think a little dental displacement never hurt anyone. Plus, you don't want her to end up too pretty. That's not character-building at all."

Meredith feels uncomfortable with the conversation in front of Vivian, but the child doesn't seem to be paying attention.

"What are you doing here?" Amy asks finally.

"I guess I was hoping I could talk to Mark."

Vivian takes her thumb out of her mouth and focuses her blue eyes on Meredith. "My dad doesn't want to talk to you," she says in her husky little voice.

"Vivi." Amy strokes the little girl's hair, looking helpless and at a loss for words, for once. "…don't," she says finally.

Meredith's internal question about how much Vivian understands of her father's reaction in their apartment yesterday is still unanswered. But she has no doubt left that the child picked up on the tension.

Amy glances up at Meredith apologetically. "She, uh, didn't really sleep last night. Neither of them did."

 _Neither of them._ With a pang, Meredith wishes she'd been able to find a way to bring Vivian's panda with her to the hospital, the one she recalls the child hugging after her night terror. From the look in Viv's eyes, that absence isn't lost on her either.

"Amy." Viv tugs on the bottom of Amy's shirt, which seems to be advertising a band Meredith has never heard of. Viv glances at Meredith darkly. "Let's go home," she tells Amy.

Meredith is somewhat surprised that she feels hurt. In spite of her best intentions and her knowledge of child development … she's hurt.

She's armed, or she should be; between parenting books and sage advice from Bailey, she was prepared when Zola shouted _I don't like you!_ that time Meredith denied her a cookie at bedtime.

For some reason this feels different.

It's as if she wants Vivian to know that she, Meredith, is on her side – but she supposes that's asking too much of a not-quite-six-year-old. Maybe in different ways, all the adults in her life are asking too much of Vivian. Meredith doesn't want to be one more.

"I'll just ... go," Meredith says, giving Amy an apologetic look. "If you see Mark – "

"Right." Amy takes Vivian's hand. "Sure. Come on, Viv, let's go."

Meredith feels the brush of something against her hair as Derek's sister passes by.

 _Fifth floor,_ she whispers.

And then she's gone, Meredith watching the backs of their heads as Amy and Vivian walk out of the sliding glass doors hand in hand, Vivian's ponytail lifted by the gust of air conditioning in the foyer. She looks small and skinny even next to the rather diminutive Amy, two sets of slumped shoulders.

She waits until they're out of sight before she slips unnoticed through the throngs of people in the lobby and boards the elevator.

Heart thumping, she avoids the eyes of the other passengers, focusing on the illuminated number five.

 _God_ , _I hope this is the right call._

…

"I'm the baker and you make shoes," Zola babbles happily, carrying a plastic potato over to Derek with both hands and tossing it onto his crossed legs.

"I make shoes?" he asks, feigning confusion. "I thought elves made shoes."

"Daddy!" Zola laughs with outrage. "Elves make _Santa Claus._ "

"Oh, how could I forget?"

Zola completes another circuit of the living room floor, checking on the plastic food she's been stacking precariously by the windows, then returns to her father and pats the top of his head. "Make shoes," she commands. "Pink ones with peanut butter."

Derek has that feeling he often does when playing with Zola lately, wishing he could capture it all and store it up, so he won't forget how hilarious it can be, how funny and wonderful it is to watch his daughter's sheer love of life.

Zola commands the game, snatching back the potato and proclaiming it _pretty good shoes_ before thrusting a handful of rubber grapes and a plastic firetruck at her father and, puzzlingly, ordering him to _hurry, hurry!_

She takes a break after the third pair of shoes, distracted by a jigsaw puzzle in her toy basket. Seemingly about to gnaw on one of the pieces, she thinks better of it, and tosses it on the ground.

"Where's Mommy?" Zola asks abruptly. "She went to work?"

 _Work._ Their normal lives in Seattle seem so far off. It's almost as if they've always lived in this chilled, hermetically sealed bubble in a city of dense humidity, pressing buildings, loud crowds.

"Mommy's running some errands."

"Store?" Zola asks eagerly. She takes Derek's silence for confirmation. " _Gummy bears_ ," she sighs; she pronounces the two words wistfully, almost like a prayer.

"Hey." Derek waits for his daughter to look at him. "Don't get any bigger, okay? You're perfect now."

Zola looks down at herself with interest, from the chocolate-smudged shirt with a red strawberry on her slightly protruding belly to her impossibly tiny toes that scrunch on the parquet floor. "I _am_ big," she says.

She climbs into Derek's lap, snuggling so sweetly for a moment that he has to swallow back _very_ un-guy-like tears.

Of course Mark wants to protect his daughter from the world; Derek knows that instinct well. The difference – the unfair difference – is that unlike the Sloans, the world is keeping a merciful distance from Derek's own little family.

Stroking Zola's hair reminds him of Meredith's words, earlier, _remember what happened when Zola was little, before you learned to do her hair? You snapped at those strangers. You thought they were insulting Zola, insulting you, but they weren't._

It's not the same thing, that's what he told her then. Because those women were strangers.

And he and Mark …

He's not sure how to answer that.

Before he can contemplate further, Zola wriggles loose from half of his embrace and begins patting his pockets with brisk efficiency.

"Can I help you?" he asks, amused.

"I need your _phone_ ," she says urgently, sparing a big smile for him. "Call Mommy, okay? Tell her bring me gummy bears."

…

"Patients in critical care don't accept unregistered visitors."

"Right. Of course." Meredith glances nervously at the sign-in book on the desk. "If I could make a call, maybe…?" She fumbles for her phone.

"No cellular phone use on the critical care wing," the nurse recites, sounding bored.

"Right. Sorry."

"Who are you trying to see?" the nurse asks, raising an eyebrow when Meredith doesn't respond. "Ma'am?"

And then the nurse is distracted by something over Meredith's shoulder, apparently.

"Dr. Sloan," the nurse says. "Do you need something?"

Meredith turns around, feeling once again like she's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

"It's okay, Sharon, I know her." Mark gestures at Meredith, not making eye contact.

Feeling a little hopeful, she tracks the few feet over to where he's standing, against a column bedecked with a large laminated set of brightly-colored HIPAA reminders.

"Mark … I'm sorry," she says automatically. "I was going to ask, but – "

"She's pseudonymously registered anyway." Mark glances at a half-open door feet from where they're standing. Meredith has to force her gaze away.

"I'm sorry," Meredith tries again.

"She knows half the doctors at this hospital and she wants to keep things under wraps." Mark glances at her. "It was her decision," he adds, defensively.

"I know that." Meredith is starting to wonder if any of this was a good idea. "I don't want to bother you, especially now ..."

"Forget it. It was a mistake," Mark says shortly.

"What was?" Meredith asks.

"All of it." Mark keeps throwing nervous glances toward the half-open door. "I don't know."

When he looks back at her Meredith sees his face is deeply marked with exhaustion, the lines carving his skin making him look significantly older than Derek even though she's aware they're the same age. Dark pockets under his eyes suggest Amy's comment that neither Mark nor Vivian slept the previous night wasn't an exaggeration.

"Well, I'm going to go back in there," Mark says, gesturing with his head toward the half-open door.

"Okay. I'm sorry I bothered you." Meredith turns to leave.

"Meredith."

She glances over her shoulder.

"I'm going to go back in there," Mark repeats. "So if you want to talk to me … that's where I'll be."

* * *

 _To be continued. On the show, I loved Meredith's impulsive choices to try to fix things for the people she loves, even if they're ill-advised, even if they're not the most practical. And even (especially?) when they wouldn't be Derek's choices. It's part of how this old-school Addek shipper recognized the yin and yang in the later-season MerDer that made them a powerful team and effective co-parents. Enough rambling - next chapter up soon, I hope, and happy holidays to all, and please review! I love hearing your thoughts, and they encourage me to keep writing. Thank you! xoxo_


	39. stubborn love

_**A/N: I am so sorry this update took so long. I think it's the longest time I've gone between chapters of this story. And this chapter is a doozy. It's insanely long, even for me, but I think you deserve a long, meaty chapter after the long wait. Thank you so, so much for all your generous reviews. They encouraged me to keep going even when this bear of a chapter gave me a hell of a case of writer's block. So buckle up and here we go and thank you again for reading.**_

* * *

 _stubborn love  
..._

* * *

 _"I'm going to go back in there," Mark repeats. "So if you want to talk to me … that's where I'll be."_

His words hang in the air. Meredith draws a deep breath that smells of lemon cleanser, antiseptic, and sterile rubber.

And then she follows him in.

…

"Where's Mommy?" Zola chirps.

"Mommy's taking a walk, Zo."

Zola looks intrigued, and slightly confused. Maybe it's just the natural ego of the toddler, but Derek can't exactly blame his daughter for wondering why anyone would choose to spend time away from her. The fact is … she's adorable.

Especially now, eating raspberries two at a time from her little pink plastic plate and pausing every few bites to offer some to Derek. He takes a berry, warm and rather squashed, and nibbles at her little palm. She shrieks with laughter.

The blessed flip side to his daughter's short attention span, he thinks, is how quickly she's adjusted to the oddity of their life in Manhattan. A week and a half in, she happily greets both doormen by name, has a preferred bodega and frozen yogurt venue of the multiple offerings in a six-block radius, and is nothing short of a bagel connoisseur.

The tension that's hung over the apartment since Mark stormed out of it doesn't seem to be affecting Zola this morning.

"Where's Vivi?" she asks with interest a few moments later, as if she's sensed his thoughts.

Derek considers how to answer. "Vivi is with her dad, Zozo," he says, adopting Zola's nickname for the other girl. "And _you_ are with your dad," he reminds her lightly, tapping her little nose.

She gives him a raspberry-stained grin. "Daddy … let's play store," she suggests.

"Great idea. Finish your breakfast first."

Delicately, Zola fishes one cheerio out of her bowl with two tiny fingers, then gives Derek a quick glance, presumably to see if he'll tell her to use a spoon. He doesn't, and she beams.

While Zola makes her way at a snail's pace through the remaining cereal, Derek glances out the greyish windows where the humidity hangs like a damp sheet over the city. It's supposed to push ninety today, but the humidity, he knows, will make the streets feel like saunas.

So indoor games sound good to him.

But he can't help checking the time. It's not that he doesn't want Meredith to get some space to herself – they have similar needs for alone time, the two of them, and have always respected each other's needs in that regard. It's more challenging with a toddler, but they've made it work. So it's not that she wanted to take a walk alone. It's … the heat, that's what it is. The unpleasant humidity that makes sweat dampen shirts and turns pedestrians breathless.

Almost unconsciously, he fingers the blackberry he's left face down on the kitchen table. He could call her.

He doesn't want to hover.

But still.

…

The lights are dimmed in the room, so she has to blink to orient herself after the brightness of the CCU station.

When she's accustomed to the lower light, she sees Mark sitting in a blue padded chair; he's in profile, but she can tell he noticed her entry. He doesn't look surprised. One of his hands is on the white blanket covering the bed, and when her gaze turns that way she can't avoid seeing the rest of it.

The bed.

Her eye is drawn to what's visible in the bed.

… and to what's not visible in the bed.

Because she sees a lot: she sees Addison's white unmoving face, and she sees what they would tell nervous family members are _lots of tubes and wires, don't worry, that's normal under these circumstances._ Her eyes run the line from the endotracheal tube to the fetal monitors strapped to the small – but definite – rise of her belly.

Meredith can't stop her own hand resting on her own bump, can't stop herself from noting their almost identical gestational ages.

It's quiet, just the hum of the machinery that's maintaining two lives, the beeping noises that can reassure or terrify, depending on pattern.

Mark hasn't said a word, and Meredith is starting to wonder if she overstepped taking him up on his invitation.

Then he turns his head slightly and nods toward the other chair against the wall. Moving carefully – there's something about this quiet room where lives hangs in the balances that compels careful movement – she tilts the chair in his direction and sits down.

She's deciding how to start – an apology? Asking how Vivian is? Asking how Addison is? Except she's not sure he wants to hear an apology, and she's not sure there's a good answer to how either Viv or Addison is doing.

"I'm sorry," she says anyway, "about what happened."

He glances at her. "I figured you came to defend Derek."

"He didn't send me," she says quickly. "It was my idea."

"I figured that too."

"But I know Derek is sorry, Mark. I know he never meant to hurt Viv, or you."

Mark doesn't respond, just turns slightly so he's looking back at Addison.

"I don't want to interrupt your … time with her," Meredith says carefully.

He shrugs a little.

"I just wanted you to know that neither of us meant for that to happen," Meredith tries again. "Viv … she overheard something, and we both feel terrible about that, but Derek didn't say anything like to her. He wouldn't do that."

Mark is still looking at the bed. "Yeah, Viv told me how it went down."

Oh. So he knows … but his face looks pained.

"You know about us?" Mark asks abruptly, turning from Addison back to Meredith.

She's slightly confused.

"What we did." Mark is looking at the wall now, away from Meredith, and she realizes he's talking about their affair.

She nods slowly, still trying to figure out what he's getting at.

"Yeah, I figured. I know how it makes us look."

"Mark – "

"She's not a bad person," he interrupts, his voice shaking a little with emotion.

Meredith can't help noticing he doesn't defend himself, just Addison.

"I know that," she assures him.

"She's a good person. She didn't mean …" His voice trails off, and he's looking away, at a memory she can't see. "No one ever means to," he says after a moment.

Meredith just nods, waiting for him to continue.

After a long silence, Mark still staring fixedly toward the wall, Meredith starts to think he's done talking.

Has her visit accomplished anything? She's not sure. She wanted to apologize, and she did. She wanted Mark to know it was a mistake, and he does.

"I slept with someone else."

Meredith does her best to hide her surprise at the unexpected words, but she can't help glancing from Mark's pained face over to Addison's still form.

"She can't hear you," Mark says patiently, as if Meredith is a med student. "And anyway, she knows. Actually," he pauses, "… it was her idea."

Meredith leans back in her chair.

 _Apparently, he's not done talking._

…

"Maybe it's Vivi!" Zola yells hopefully when the doorman buzzes.

Derek just smiles at his daughter, unwilling to disappoint her.

"Nancy."

"Derek. Oh _hi_ , sweet pea," Nancy coos to Zola, who has trotted to the door to investigate. She gives her aunt a wave, but Derek notices her glancing with interest at Nancy's oversized shoulder bag.

"Is everything okay with Mom?" Derek asks quickly.

"Of course. You're on the group email. She's happy as a clam at Liz's and Lizzie's getting out all that mother hen energy." Nancy closes the door behind her. "It's absolutely _disgusting_ out there. I wouldn't mind some cold water," she says mildly when Derek doesn't offer.

He brings her a bottle while Zola twines hopefully around her legs and Nancy fusses over her.

"Daddy, look!" Zola shrieks with joy.

Nancy's brought her a pack of gummy bears. Zola is correspondingly thrilled; she thanks Nancy as passionately as if she'd just given her a kidney, and then begs Derek to open the pack.

"Before lunch?" He glances at his sister, not really annoyed … but still. "Nice, Nance."

"Oh, please." She rolls her eyes and takes a long sip of water. "Half my older kids' cavities are down to you and Addie. I should get to be the fun aunt for once."

There's enough truth in this for Derek to tear open the bag and ration a small portion for a delighted Zola. She carries her treasure to her play area like a little magpie, sinking to her knees to enjoy the sweet treat.

Nancy is still standing in the middle of the room where he left her. "Where's Meredith?" she asks once Zola is occupied.

"She went for a walk."

"In this heat?"

Nancy's question alarms him for a moment until he realizes she's just being _Nancy_ , rather than an OBGYN.

"She wanted some fresh air."

" _Fresh_." Nancy smiles ruefully. "it's been so awful, hasn't it? Not that I've spent so much time in the Pacific Northwest, but you have … trees, and there's really nothing like a Manhattan August." She wrinkles her nose.

Derek waits patiently for her to stop chattering, and she frowns at his silence. "What?" she asks.

Derek glances toward Zola, then takes his sister's arm and leads her out of earshot. "Nancy … what's going on?"

"I should ask _you_ that."

"Oh." So she's here, like Amy, on a penance errand. He glances toward Zola and lowers his voice. "You heard what happened?"

Now Nancy looks confused. "What happened with … what?"

"With Mark."

He regrets his word choice when Nancy's face pales. "No, no," he hastens to reassure her, "Addison is … there's no change," he amends, since _Addison is fine_ isn't exactly accurate. But he can tell from Nancy's expression that she thought the worst had happened.

She takes a deep breath and another long swallow of water. "What happened with Mark, then?" When Derek doesn't respond, she continues: "You said _Mark._ If it's not Addison, then what happened with Mark?"

"Don't worry about it."

Nancy looks around the open living room. "Weren't you watching his kid?"

"We were."

"But you're not anymore."

"Right."

Nancy frowns. "Why are you being so secretive?"

"Why don't you tell me why you're here first?" Derek asks pointedly.

Nancy thinks about this. "Quid pro quo?"

"Nancy …"

She waves a hand, then lowers herself onto the living room couch, crossing her legs.

"Nancy." He takes a seat across from her. "You didn't tell me you were coming."

"I know."

"Is something wrong?"

"Secrets are Shepherd currency," she says after a few moments of silence.

"Well, they shouldn't be."

"Maybe they shouldn't be … but they are." Nancy studies him calmly. "So you tell me yours first."

"How old are we?" Derek asks irritably, but Nancy doesn't seem to be budging.

Sighing, he relents: he gives her a condensed version of what happened with Mark and hears her draw sharp breath in response.

"Oh, Derek." She actually looks sorry for him – he's used to his sister's gaze being critical; Nancy has had strong opinions from Derek's earliest memories of her, _That's not how the locomotive sounds! That's not where the mittens go! That's not the right way to fold the towels!,_ but now she just looks a little sad.

"So that's what happened."

"I'm sorry," Nancy says, and sounds like she means it. "They're … going through a lot, Derek, don't take it personally."

"I'm not taking it personally."

It's a lie, but Nancy doesn't need to know that. Before she can reply, he speaks: "Now tell me what's going on with you."

She studies her hands and doesn't say anything.

"How's Jesse?" Derek asks finally, carefully.

"He's okay," she says immediately, defensively, and he sighs.

He knew she wouldn't make this easy.

"And the girls?"

"The girls are fine."

He's not surprised. Nancy's always been something of a rug-sweeper – in retrospect, her closeness with Addison over the years makes even more sense. It's a shared trait.

"Amy has been … helping," Nancy says, and now he's a bit surprised. Amy hinted at it, _Nancy knows,_ but hearing it from Nancy is different.

He nods. "That's good." He doesn't say _I'm glad you're letting her_ , though he is, and he's fairly certain his brother-in-law is a large part of why it's possible. Still, it feels like progress.

"Amy wants him to go … away somewhere," Nancy says tightly.

He nods.

"But we're keeping him at home. It just makes more sense." Nancy's not looking at him; there's nothing he can say.

"And Joy's all right?" he prompts.

"Joy's all right." Nancy nods. "Joy is fine. She got checked out, we had her tested … she's okay, Derek. She's a tough kid."

Derek nods.

Nancy seems to be arguing with someone who isn't present. "He didn't mean to do it. He was upset, he was caught off guard – wait until you have two, Derek, you'll see how they squabble, Emma once pushed Sean on the jungle gym in the country …" but her voice trails off, and he sees two spots of color rising on her prominent cheekbones. Her excuses, her tendency to gloss over things – he knows it's what Kath would call a defense mechanism. Kath always liked shrinking Nancy, Nancy always hated it. _What's the word for torturing your siblings?_ Nancy snapped at her once. Derek didn't interfere.

"He's only fifteen," Nancy whispers.

"So was Amy."

He says it without thinking, and Nancy blinks, surprised.

"I know that." Her voice trembles.

"I'm sorry." Derek steeples his fingers, not sure what's gotten into him. He glances at his blackberry.

Still no word from Meredith.

"He's my baby." Nancy is toying with the corner of one of the throw pillows. "I carried him for nine months, I nursed him, I watched him take his first steps – and fall for the first time." There are tears in her eyes.

"I know."

"He should be home, Derek. He should be with me."

Nancy's voice is shaking. Not really sure what to do, he inches closer and rests a hand on one of her shoulders.

He's surprised when she tips her head forward and leans into what he didn't realize was a proffered embrace. Her chin is pointy where it rests against his shoulder, and when he places a hand on her narrow back in the hopes of calming her he can feel the ridges of her spine through her blouse. _Sharp_ , that's Nancy. She's always been bony, but also prickly – with edges that slice.

And she's never been a crier.

She's not crying now, not exactly, and when she draws back he sees the tears didn't leave her eyes. She dabs at her cheeks anyway, with a tissue she withdraws from a little leather case in her handbag.

"Sorry." She glances at him.

"It's okay. This is hard." Derek waits for her to seem recovered. "But Jesse … he's really okay?"

Nancy doesn't meet his eyes. "He's really okay."

...

"Derek should hate me," Mark finishes, looking grim, "but he's not the only one who should."

Meredith studies him for a moment. She's had hints of this from him in other conversations, throwaway comments, but the sheer density of his self-loathing takes her breath away.

"Mark …"

"It was unforgivable." He's looking at his folded hands, and she's not sure which _it_ he's referring to now.

She just nods, letting him talk.

"Derek was my family. His family was my family – the only family I had. And Addison was his wife." He sounds exhausted, but it's more than that making his voice tremble. "I fell in love with her. And I knew I couldn't act on it because it would destroy so many lives. But I couldn't _not_ act on it either …"

He looks at Meredith, maybe seeking understanding, maybe wondering, _can you imagine a love like that?_ And she smiles, even though she feels sad.

She smiles with sympathy … because she can.

"After Derek left, it was like we were underwater. Addison, she kept thinking we'd – that we could somehow make it okay, you know, that Derek would take her calls and listen to her apologize and tell her everything was fine, that he didn't mind that we'd blown up his marriage, his life ... and then she was pregnant."

Meredith is listening, outwardly dispassionate, to the story she's only heard from Derek before, bits and pieces. She was there for the aftermath of the explosion; she just didn't know it was the aftermath. For Derek, alone in the bar. _Just hiding my pain._ And later, when he told her. _It was like I was drowning, and you saved me._ The divorce papers she found in the trailer. Derek's profile against the stars while he sat outside, telling her what happened.

"We couldn't drown," Mark says. "Because she was pregnant, we had to … crawl back out, we had to breathe for the baby because she couldn't breathe by herself. And then Vivi was born and she was perfect. So tiny. Ten fingers, ten toes, the bluest eyes you've ever seen." He pauses, and she can tell he's lingering on the memory. "I couldn't believe something so terrible we'd done could have produced something so beautiful."

Meredith nods. She is listening, but more than that, she can tell he needs to talk, and it's the preamble to something.

"And then there were three of us. I didn't deserve it, but I had a family. And we worked, as a family. Addison and I, we were a team. If she …" His voice trails off. "I don't know if I can do it alone," he says quietly.

And there it is.

"You won't be alone. _If_ the … worst happens," she says. "You won't be alone, Mark."

He doesn't respond.

"You and Vivian, you'll have each other. You'll need each other."

"No." He shakes his head. "You don't understand. It won't work without Addison."

"It won't work the same way," Meredith says softly, "but that doesn't mean it won't work."

"I can't do anything. Don't you see that? I'm here when I should be with Viv and when I'm home with Viv trying to get her to sleep, to eat, to _live_ because she's a kid and she needs things ... I can't breathe because I don't know what's happening here. But Viv needs things and I need to be with her. I need her to know …"

His voice trails off.

"She knows. Viv knows."

"I can't be here." He looks at Addison's still form in the bed again, and shakes his head. "And I can't leave."

"I get it," she says quietly. A memory flashes before her eyes, just a brief moment drenched in sensation – a lemon-scented hospital room, her mother's face creased with anger and confusion, the paper-thin feel of her skin and the swelling around her joints; Meredith was the one on the bedside chair then.

"I can't just sit here watching." Mark's voice is thick. "I can't. She's dying."

"She's not dying," Meredith says quietly. "She's trying to live. She's trying to keep your son alive."

"He's killing her."

"I don't think so. Look." Tentatively, Meredith leans forward, pointing toward the twin monitors on the side of the bed, tracking patient and fetal progress on matching screens. Together, they watch the lines move in rhythmic tandem. "I think they're in this together. I think maybe they're keeping each other alive."

…

"Where's Mommy?" Zola asks, abandoning her plastic grocery set and trying to climb onto Derek's lap. Nancy has long since calmed down and they've been calmly discussing his mother's positive prognosis; now his sister sits up a bit straighter, apparently waiting for Derek's answer.

"Mommy will be back soon, Zozo." Derek lifts her the rest of the way onto his lap for a cuddle, hoping she doesn't hear anything in his tone. "Are you getting hungry, sweetie?"

"Yeah." Zola gazes up at him, her expression thoughtful. "I need a bagel."

"Oh, you do?" He kisses the top of her head and she snuggles close. "Then I guess you have to have one."

"With pink cream cheese _extra_ ," she says firmly.

"Is it already lunchtime?" Nancy's expression is mild, but Derek can tell she's dying to ask where Meredith is. He glances at the time.

"Do you want to have lunch with us, Nance?"

He's not sure which answer he'd prefer.

"I'd love to, but I'm seeing a patient in an hour. I'll pick up a salad on the way. And I'll see you tomorrow night, right?"

"Yes," he says automatically, and then pauses. "What's tomorrow night?"

"Derek," she sighs, "you're _on_ the emails. Mom's coming back into the city for her post-op and we're all having dinner."

"I thought her post-op was today – and please don't say _you're on the emails._ "

"Fine, I won't." Nancy stands up, smoothing out her skirt. "But check your email, please. And I'll see you tomorrow."

She holds out her arms to Zola, and looks delighted when Zola offers her an enthusiastic hug goodbye; Derek returns Nancy's smile, hoping his sister doesn't realize quite how effective her gummy bear present was.

"Bagel now, Daddy?" Zola asks sweetly once they close the door behind Nancy.

"Sure." Derek checks the time. Meredith responded to his first text – _I don't have good service, I'll text when I can, kiss Zo for me_. But she hasn't responded to his second, or his third.

 _Don't hover,_ he reminds himself, but he calls her anyway.

It goes straight to voicemail.

"Daddy?"

He lifts Zola up and holds her close. "Everything's fine, sweetie," he says, realizing he's speaking to himself more than to his daughter.

"When is Mommy coming home?"

…

"I know there's nothing we can do to help, not really." Meredith studies the monitors for a moment. "But I wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you that Derek didn't say that, not in the way that you thought, and he didn't mean it. Whatever his feelings are about you, he could never blame Vivian. That's not who Derek is."

"I know that," Mark admits. "It's been a while … but I know him."

" _Is_ there anything we can do?" Meredith asks tentatively. "Help with Viv, or …"

Mark shakes his head. He's looking away from her again.

"Nah, Amy's helping, but – thanks. And I need to be with Viv, but looking at her and knowing I can't do anything about any of this, I can't do anything about _anything_ …" He shakes his head. "I'm her dad." His voice breaks. "I'm supposed to be able to protect her. I'm supposed to be able to fix everything."

"I don't think she needs you to fix everything," Meredith says quietly. "I think she just needs you."

Mark looks pained.

"She's a … perceptive kid," Meredith says, thinking ruefully of what she knows Viv has overheard in different contexts, wondering how much Mark realizes.

"Yeah. I know." Mark looks grim. "They call it _hypervigilance._ Shrinks, I mean. Attuned to everything around them, hears a lot more than you realize, always trying to figure out what people are thinking and … ."

At Meredith's expression, he shrugs a little. "She was in therapy," he continues, his tone casual enough that Meredith supposes children in therapy aren't unusual in his world. "Before. She won't go anymore. We tried to take her a couple times, after Faith … she just sat there and stared down the shrink, not a word, didn't even move. It's play therapy, you know, there's no Freudian shit or anything, but Viv was dead silent. Wouldn't let us leave. She can be stubborn." He pauses, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "She gets that from her mom."

…

Time is different inside a hospital, inside a patient's room, and when Meredith realizes how long the rhythmic beeps of the monitors have lulled her into staying, she's shocked. She stares at the clock on the wall of the CCU, then pushes through the swinging doors. _No phones in the CCU,_ but she can use it out here, and hopefully Derek isn't –

She sees the missed calls first.

And then the texts she didn't answer.

 _I'm glad you're getting some air, but check in and let me know how it's going._

 _Zola's going to be hungry soon, do you want to meet somewhere for lunch?_

 _Mom's appointment's been moved to tomorrow._

 _I'm taking Zola for a bagel. Please let me know your plan._

The words are calm, but she knows him well enough to know how much he must be worrying.

Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit._

…

"Mommy!" Zola shouts joyfully when she pushes open the door. She barely has time to pocket her keys before her arms are full of wriggly, enthusiastic toddler. Holding Zola close for a moment, she lets her sweetness flush out what's left of the hospital chill clinging to her bones. Over the top of her daughter's head, she sees Derek looking at her.

He's leaning against the wall in the entryway, arms folded.

Giving Zola a kiss, she sets her gently on her feet. "Hey, Zozo … why don't you go play with your kitchen things, and I'll come and play too in a minute."

"Come now," she counter-offers.

"I just want to say hello to Daddy first."

 _Say hello_ , that's a euphemism if she's ever heard one, but Zola seems to be taking it seriously.

"You go set up and I'll be right there," Meredith promises her.

She waits until Zola is settled in the corner of the living room that's become her play area.

"Derek, I'm sorry I worried you," she starts.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" he asks before she can continue.

"I did." She fingers the phone. She called as soon as she reached the sidewalk, and assured him she was fine, and sidestepped the question of what she'd been doing.

"I mean, why didn't you answer your phone any of the other times I tried you?" he clarifies.

"I'm sorry I worried you," she repeats.

"Meredith …" He shakes his head.

"You did say you didn't mind if I went for a walk."

"I didn't mind. But that was hours ago. Where have you been?"

"I need to talk to you," she says instead of answering.

"Are you all right?" he asks immediately, reaching for her, his eyes searching hers, and she exhales on guilt.

"I'm fine. I'm _fine._ " She touches his arm. "Really. Can we go sit down?"

He doesn't look convinced, but he follows her into the living room, a hand resting lightly on her back – maybe out of habit, maybe to convince himself she's all right. Her mouth tastes like guilt.

They sit down together on the couch, and she turns to him.

"I went to see Mark."

"You did what?" He stands up again.

"Derek …"

"Meredith, what were you thinking?"

"I was thinking that I wanted to see Mark."

He shakes his head. "And were you also _thinking_ that you wouldn't bother to tell me?"

"I'm telling you now, Derek," she says quietly, still sitting on the couch. She folds her hands over her midsection out of habit; she's not trying to manipulate him, but she sees his eyes flicker toward the bump where her hands rest. "It was fine," she adds, trying to reassure him.

"But you didn't tell me then," he says, and there's a cool edge to his voice she doesn't like. "You didn't tell me, Meredith. You hid it. So you must not have thought it would be fine. You must think there was a concern."

"My concern is that _you_ would overreact to it," she tells him. "That you would … want to protect me, that you would treat me like glass or … whatever."

"Treat you like glass or whatever," he repeats. He's pacing, frustrated. "There's a heat index warning out there, you shut off your phone – you couldn't _breathe_ the other night, Meredith!"

"Seriously?" Her heart thumps. "That's not fair, to throw that in my face. We're better than that."

"That's not what I'm doing," he mutters, but he looks sorry.

"Derek," she says gently, "you have nothing to worry about."

"I have everything to worry about!"

Her eyes widen at the volume of his voice; she sees Zola looks up from her play.

"Daddy, _indoor_ voice," Zola calls across the room, her own lungs healthily producing sound.

"You're right, Zozo." Derek waits until their daughter has given a satisfied nod and returned to the pink plastic shopping cart she's carefully filling with wooden blocks, then turns back to Meredith. His face is softer now.

"I know you wouldn't …" Derek shakes his head. "You know that's _not_ what I was saying."

"I do know," she says slowly. "And that's good. Because I wouldn't."

He's quiet for a moment, and she just looks up at his face. She's trying to imagine the monumental betrayal that drove a wedge between her husband and his former best friend. She's thought of it before, but its very breath-stealing nature feels different here, somehow. Mark's shadow is still in the doorway, his daughter's stuffed sleep toy is still on the little bed where she slept. They're present in this apartment.

Tentatively, she pats the cushion next to her, and he sits down.

She reaches for his hand. "I know what you're worried about," she says gently. "I'm pregnant, and that's … scary, in different ways, for both of us, but I can't put life on hold for the next twenty-four weeks…"

"Twenty-three and a half." He smiles a little.

"Twenty-three and a half."

"You know what I mean." Meredith pauses. "Derek … what are we talking about here? The heat, or when I didn't pick up my phone?" When he doesn't look at her, she swallows. "You think he's dangerous?" she asks softly.

Derek pauses, seeming to be choosing his words carefully. "I think he was angry," he says. "When he left."

"Angry enough to be dangerous … but you let him leave with a five-year-old?"

"She's his five-year-old," Derek says simply.

"And I'm yours?" she searches his face, wanting to understand what he's thinking.

"You're not five." He smiles a little.

"But I'm yours," Meredith prompts.

He frowns. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"That's not it, Derek, it's that you have to trust me." She's still holding his hand, and now she brings it to rest on her midsection, keeping their fingers folded together.

"I do trust you." He looks down at their joined hands on her belly. "I trust that you're going to do what you think is right."

"Yeah." Meredith follows his gaze. "You just don't trust it will actually _be_ right."

He doesn't respond; his thumb is moving soothingly across the back of her hand. Not for the first time, she's convinced that she can feel their closeness in a single touch. His hands on her wouldn't feel this way, if this weren't right, if this weren't _it._ If she can be sure of anything, she can be sure of this. She closes her eyes for a moment, just drinking in sensation. With both their hands resting on the swell at her midsection, they're touching their son in tandem, and she wants to feel it.

Then she opens her eyes. "Derek … look at me?"

She waits for him to do so, and gives him an encouraging smile. "I'm not going to be right every time," she says gently. "I'm going to be wrong and so are you. We're pretty good at this, I think – but everyone tries things and screws up, _no one_ is perfect. I know the stakes are high." She tightens her hand on his. "I know you have to … give up the reins here, a certain amount, and that's not really your thing."

He smiles ruefully, but doesn't say anything. After a moment, he nods; a calm descends and then she hears soft thumping footsteps. Their daughter is joining them, climbing into Derek's lap while he pretends to be exhausted lifting her, making her giggle, and then her little hand is resting on Meredith's midsection too.

Suddenly, they all freeze.

"He kicked," Derek says, his voice filled with wonder.

She looks up and sees tears in his eyes.

"Who kicked?" Zola demands.

"Your baby brother did – here, Zozo … put your hand right here." Meredith guides it. "You can feel it too."

Zola's eyes widen. "I can?" She moves her hand.

Derek's hand comes to rest next to it; Meredith folds her fingers through his, and for a moment on the faded couch in an apartment that's not really home they sit together, as a family of four.

…

There's something calming about resting on the couch, all three of their hands on the spot where the newest Shepherd was growing. In descending size order: his, Meredith's smaller, more delicate one, and then Zola's tiny dimpled one.

When Zola grows heavy-eyed, lulled into her nap, Derek carries her to their bedroom.

"Is she sleeping?"

"Before her head hit the pillow." Derek glances at her. "How was he?"

"Not great," Meredith says honestly. "I don't think he's slept since he left our place yesterday. And Amy was there, with Viv."

"Was she …"

"She wouldn't talk to me." Meredith remembers Viv's closed, set little face, the way she hung back with Amy.

 _My dad doesn't want to talk to you._

Derek is studying her face.

"You want me to go talk to him," he says slowly.

Meredith waits until they're in the kitchen, brewing coffee for Derek and boiling water for her, before she responds.

"I want you to go see him." Meredith glances at him. "But not because I think he needs it – I mean, he does need it, but that's not why. It's because I think _you_ need it."

"I need it?" Derek sounds confused.

"You need it. I think you do." She pauses. "You never really processed it, Derek, did you? Everything that happened. I mean, you just left. Not that I blame you for that," she adds hurriedly, "it's just that it means they didn't apologize and you didn't forgive them. You just … moved on."

He doesn't respond.

"And you've been incredible since we've been here, with Mark and with Viv, and that whole misunderstanding – it was a misunderstanding, but it came from somewhere."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean your mom and your sisters, I know they were harping on your taking care of Vivian, and it's – they were wrong, but I get it." She pauses. "Derek, is it possible that you needed not to be angry, or hurt, about what happened with Mark and Addison, because you didn't want to give it too much power."

"How do you figure that?"

"Because what they did was terrible, Derek. I'm not saying they're terrible people, but what they did was … my _god_ , it was bad, really bad, you walked away from your life and started over and just erased them. You didn't want to talk about it, when I met you, and I understood. You didn't have to see them or reconcile and I get that.

"But now we're here," she says tentatively, "now I think you're afraid to be angry because you're afraid _angry_ would mean … that you think they deserve what's happening to them right now."

Her heart beats faster with her words.

Derek stares. "How can you say that?"

"No, Derek, listen to me. I'm _not_ saying you think that. Of course not. I'm saying it's not so black and white. It's not either all's forgiven and forgotten, or you think this horrible thing is their … cheating karma or something." She rests a hand on his arm.

"You don't have to pick one or the other. You can be somewhere in between."

He tips his head back for a moment. He's exhausted.

She rests a hand on the side of his face for a moment, then moves it into his hair, tangling gently, adding rhythm for comfort.

"He's still at the hospital?"

Meredith nods. "He said Amy has to leave at seven, and they'll trade off then. He'll take Viv home."

"Right." Derek pauses. "I could go tomorrow."

"You could."

"But, uh … Vivian probably needs her panda." Derek looks a little embarrassed at the words, but Meredith finds herself smiling.

"I'll go tonight," he says finally, "after we put Zola down." He pauses. "Mer … you don't look surprised."

"I'm not. I knew you would go."

"How did you know?"

"Because I know you," Meredith says.

"I thought you weren't always going to be right," he teases gently.

She leans forward to brush her lips against his, then pulls back. "I'm right about _you_ ," she says, her voice soft. "I know who you are."

…

Derek stands outside the gate for a few moments, one hand tracing the brass eagle Nancy described before his first visit here. A touchstone to help him find the place.

Now, not even two weeks later, it feels almost … familiar.

He stares up at the imposing limestone townhouse with its wrought-iron Juliet balconies and bursts of red flowers in the windowboxes. At the heavy black front door.

This won't be easy.

Few things this necessary are, in his experience.

He takes one more deep breath at the front door, hand poised over the lion-shaped doorknocker, before he lifts it up ... and lets it go.

It's not long before the door opens.

Mark looks as exhausted as he's seen him – Derek is a bit surprised again each new encounter at how thin he's become, at the fully-greyed scruff on his depleted jaw. There are hollows under Mark's eyes; he looks like he hasn't slept in … far too long.

"Don't close the door," Derek says quickly.

Mark studies him for a moment, then opens the door wider.

Derek steps over the threshold.

"What is it?" Mark asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you want to say something?" Mark sounds confused.

"I don't know. I didn't really plan anything past 'don't close the door.'"

Mark looks, for just a moment, like he's fighting a smile. The stale air of the dim townhouse vanishes and for a brief moment they're friends again.

Then the heavy door swings shut behind him, and he remembers where they are.

Reaching into the tote bag he brought, Derek extends the stuffed animal he carried from their apartment.

"That's mine!"

The voice surprises him; Derek didn't realize Viv was in eyeshot – the sprawling first floor of the townhouse is dim and shadowy, and he doesn't see her until she steps into the weak light thrown in by the open front door.

"I know. I brought back for you." Derek holds out the panda.

Vivian stays where she is, glancing at her father.

"Is Meredith here too?" she asks after a moment, her voice gravelly.

"Not this time." Derek smiles at Vivian, who looks a bit worse for the wear, her long hair pulled most of the way into a tangled ponytail. He can't tell if she's dressed for bed – based on what he's seen her wear it could be either, but the fabric is wrinkled and she's squinting a little like she's come from a darkened room.

Mark takes the panda from Derek and hands it to Viv. "Here. Go put him in your room."

Vivian stays where she is, holding the panda; Derek watches her turn the stuffed animal slowly like she's conducting some sort of exam, checking him for … something.

"Go upstairs, okay, baby? I'll be there in a minute. Go, Vivi," he repeats when she doesn't move.

"I don't want to be upstairs by myself."

"Fine, then go wait in the playroom." Mark is massaging the back of his neck, looking irritated.

Viv stands her ground. "I'm not going with her," she scowls. "I'm not!"

Derek doesn't understand the context, but Mark's expression fills much of it in.

"We're not talking about this now, Viv. Just go wait for me in the playroom."

"I don't want to."

"I don't care! Don't argue with me." Mark points. " _Go._ "

Derek finds himself flinching a bit at Mark's tone. Vivian doesn't; she looks like she's about to say something else – then she turns and stomps off, her panda in her arms. Derek listens to her angry footfalls growing distant.

Mark's hand is still resting on the back of his neck. When he raises his eyes to meet Derek's, he looks like he's waiting to be challenged.

Derek doesn't say anything.

"Thanks for bringing it back. She didn't sleep last night."

"Of course." Now he wishes he'd figured out a way to bring it back the night before. Then again, he did try to reach out, but Mark ignored his attempts.

He's not sure what to say. Should he move right into an apology? "Mark, about what happened – "

"Forget it."

Derek nods, uncertain the conversation is over. He searches blindly for a more neutral topic. "Meredith said, uh, that Amy was helping you out today?"

"Amy has been great. Amy is balancing this …" Mark gestures around the townhouse, "… with her own stuff."

"With Jesse," Derek prompts, figuring if Mark doesn't know it won't give anything away and if he does then Mark will know Derek knows too.

"With her own stuff," Mark repeats. His face betrays no emotion; Mark was always a wall. At any given time over their childhood he'd have secrets from one sibling that another couldn't hear and then secrets from that same sibling in the other direction, and you could walk right up to him and say _I know Nancy's the one who broke the basement window_ and he wouldn't say a word.

If secrets were Shepherd currency, as Nancy said earlier – Mark might have been the richest of them all.

He lets it go and just nods so Mark will continue.

"Viv won't go with anyone else. Her nanny – she's been with us since Viv was tiny. She's incredible. Viv adores her, or she used to." Mark looks down for a moment. "Things started changing after … Faith." He says the name quietly. "She didn't want us to go, you know. And after Addison's diagnosis, Viv just refused to be left with her."

He remembers something Mark told him early on, about Viv:

 _She_ _won't stay with the nanny and it was too hard on Addison to try to leave her and listen to her scream. So she pretty much goes wherever we go._

Mark hasn't said to him, specifically, how torn that makes him, how his role in their fragmenting family is the rope in a tug of war of loved ones who need him – but he hasn't had to.

Amy helps, he knows. When she can, when _she_ 's not torn, and Derek knows he and Meredith – and Zola – have been able to provide some respite too.

Tentatively, he enters the conversation: "Is there anything we can – "

"She's five," Mark says, seeming to be talking mostly to himself. "She doesn't sleep, not like she should."

Derek nods sympathetically, Mark doesn't seem to notice.

"I have to figure out what's best for her and it's not sitting in the room watching her mother – " he stops talking and Derek sees his face change as he turns.

Vivian is standing a few feet away, just past the rise that introduces the grand staircase. She's holding her stuffed panda again, with its out-of-place pink-stitched grin, and staring at Mark.

"Viv, I told you to stay in the playroom," he says sharply.

She shifts her weight and answers with a question of her own: "What were you saying to Derek? Before?"

Derek can see Mark's discomfort in the set of his shoulders, his fear of what his daughter may have heard.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Mark says quickly. "We're talking about grownup things, Vivi. Go back to the playroom and I'll come in there when we're done."

"She's _my_ mom." Viv's voice trembles slightly, and Derek feels the effect of her words in the tightening of his stomach – he can only imagine their effect on Mark.

"I know that, baby." Mark's tone is much softer now, and he crosses the hardwood floor to crouch in front of her and take the hand that's not holding her panda in his. "I know. Can you go back to the playroom and wait for me, please? I'll be in there in a couple minutes. I promise."

Mark stands up and fumbles for something Derek can't see, then hands it to Vivian. "Here. You can watch a show. Close the door," he adds.

Viv looks from one of them to the other, then leaves with Mark's iPad in one hand and her panda in the other. Mark waits until they've both heard the click of the door.

"Sorry about that." Mark is rubbing the back of his neck again. "We're all on – she didn't sleep, and if she doesn't go with Needa in the morning then I either have to stay away from the hospital or let Viv into the room to see – bring her with me," he cuts himself off, perhaps still worrying Viv might be listening.

"Those aren't your only options," Derek says carefully.

Mark glances at him.

"We can watch her. Meredith and I."

He can't quite read the expression on Mark's face. Maybe it's been too long, these last few years; some level of inscrutability is now possible on features he used to know as well as his own.

"That's great of you." Mark looks down. "Really. But I don't think it's going to work this time."

"Why not?"

"And you're leaving in a couple days, aren't you?" Mark asks, sidestepping the _why_.

Derek blinks. Time has become so fluid here he's nearly forgotten. But he nods, admitting it.

"I have to figure this out," Mark says grimly. "But I appreciate it, man. I really do. And everything you've done, you and Meredith. You didn't have to do all that."

"We wanted to." He pauses, considering mentioning that Meredith told him she went to see Mark at the hospital.

"You got a good one, Derek," Mark says, making it easy for Derek to avoid the choice. "You're lucky you found her."

"I know. Thank you," he adds.

Mark looks distracted, his gaze toward the bookshelves that line one of the walls. "It's not looking so good," he says quietly. Derek isn't sure if he's talking to himself; he's unfortunately fairly certain, though, what he means.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"Me too." Mark is gripping the back of his neck again.

"Have you slept at all?" Derek can't help asking.

"Viv's having a tough time," Mark responds, which answers and doesn't answer the question all at once.

How long are they going to be able to go on like this?

"There's a new MFM coming tomorrow to meet with the oncology team. Someone from Addison's fellowship, and she thinks maybe – but I don't know." He shakes his head. "I have to make decisions," he says grimly. He's staring at the bookshelves again, and Derek is almost positive this time he's talking to himself.

Maybe thinking about his previous powerless – with Addison making all the decisions – and now, too much power – he has to make all the decisions.

They never got their happy medium.

"Thanks for coming," Mark says quietly. "I know I overreacted, before."

"I understand."

Derek takes in his words, curious.

Is it goodbye?

They've had more than one false farewell with the Sloans, from their aborted flight to Switzerland to Mark's abrupt departure from their apartment. Somehow, though, this feels like it might be it.

"Maybe we'll see you – " Derek begins.

"Yeah, maybe," Mark responds before he can finish. "Thanks again for coming by. Actually…" He pauses. "There was something I wanted to ask you about." He moves toward the wall to flick on a light.

It's still dim, but not so dim that they can't make out Vivian sitting on the bottom stair, arms wrapped around her knees.

"What are you doing?" Mark advances on her and she stands up, grabbing the banister as if to hold her ground. "I told you to stay in the playroom!"

"I don't care!" Vivian's expression is reckless, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering. "You never tell me _anything_!"

"Fine, then you can go to bed." Mark points up the stairs.

"No!"

"And no screens," he says, grabbing the iPad off the staircase – she hasn't been looking at it, but she still makes a half-hearted grab for it as he holds it out of her reach.

"Go back to the playroom," he orders her, but she doesn't move.

"Fine. No screens," he repeats, "and you're going to bed as soon as Derek leaves. By yourself," he adds.

A shadow crosses her face. "No, not by myself."

"Viv, I'm not arguing with you. I told you to go wait in the playroom!"

"I don't want to sleep by myself!" she counters.

"Well, you should have thought of that before you stopped listening." He raises his voice. "Go!"

"No!" She yells back, stamping her foot.

Derek remains where he's standing, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

Mark grips the back of his neck again, looking like he's losing his patience.

"Vivian, I swear – "

"No!"

He reaches for her and she grips the banister; he tugs her off easily and sets her down on the landing, turning her in the direction she went before. "Go back to the playroom right now. I mean it."

" _I hate you,_ " Viv shrieks, spinning around to face him.

"Yeah? Sometimes I hate you too," Mark snaps at her.

"Mark," Derek intercedes quietly, unable to stop himself.

There's a thick silence.

For a moment Derek thinks Mark is going to punch him.

He doesn't.

He pushes past him, bolts through the hall, and then slams the front door behind him, leaving Derek and Vivian in the oversized great room alone.

Vivian is staring at the closed door.

She looks very small standing there in shorts and a tank top – if it's a different outfit from the one she was wearing yesterday, there's no indication – her long hair tangled around her. The bravado or sheer animal rage, whatever it was, seems to have dissipated. Now her face looks slack, a combination of exhaustion and fear in her eyes. Slowly, her thumb drifts toward her mouth.

Between them, Mark's words hang in the air.

Derek is suddenly very tired.

Bone tired.

If this is how exhausted the Sloans feel all the time … then all things considered, maybe they're not handling things that badly at all.

Vivian still hasn't moved.

"Viv," he says tentatively.

She doesn't look at him.

"He didn't mean that," Derek tells her.

"So?" Vivian props her hands on her hips, glaring at Derek now, apparently transferring her anger over to him. "You don't know _anything_!"

"Maybe not." Derek sits down on the edge of the brocade couch, conscious that Vivian is watching him. "But I'm a dad too. I may not know much about you but I do know what it's like to have a little girl … and love her so much."

Viv eyes him, but doesn't move closer. "Zola's your little girl," she says.

"That's right, she is. And you are your dad's little girl, and I know he loves you."

"He's mad."

"He's not mad at you, Viv."

 _He's mad at your mother, and at your unborn brother, and at the world … but let's not go there._

Vivian looks unconvinced.

"Your dad is … sad right now," he tries. "Grownups get sad too, and sometimes it makes them act … not like they would like to act."

"He doesn't want me," she says simply.

"That's not true."

"He said so."

"When, now?"

She nods.

Derek studies her for a moment. "Do you hate him?"

"No," Viv says, her cheeks flushing, "not really, just kind of I did when I said it and I was mad."

Derek follows the trail of not-quite-six-year-old logic.

"I didn't think so."

"My dad doesn't like babies," Viv says, in her husky little voice, "and I used to be a baby before I got big. He doesn't want my brother and maybe he didn't want me either."

She raises her little chin, like she's trying to be tough – or too proud to cry – and he's struck by her resemblance to Addison in the moment.

"I know that's not true, Viv."

"No, you don't."

"Actually, I do. I met you once, before you were born. When you were still in your mom's belly."

Vivian's eyes narrow. "No, you didn't."

"I did. Your mom came to Seattle, where I live, to help someone at my hospital. And I saw her, and she told me she was going to have you –"

It wasn't exactly news at that point; he'd known since Nancy's phone call months before, and Addison was five or six months pregnant already, and it was a rather uncomfortable encounter, but Viv doesn't need to know that.

"- and she was really excited to be having a baby, and happy about it. So I know how much she and your dad wanted you."

Viv moves straight into her next question. "Is my mom going to die?"

What a question.

"No one will tell me," she whines.

Derek studies the grubby-looking buddy tape on her small toes, buying time before he has to meet her sad eyes.

"I don't know, Viv," he says honestly, finally. "I know she doesn't want to, and her doctors don't want her to, and they're all doing the best they can."

Vivian moves a few steps closer. He doesn't touch her – it seems unwise with the fragile peace they might be rebuilding, but he smiles at her in what he hopes is an encouraging way.

"If my dad doesn't come back, can I go to your apartment?" Her lower lip trembles. "I don't want to stay here by myself."

"Of course you can," he says without hesitation. "I would never leave you here by yourself. But your dad is going to come back."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know him."

He glances out the door automatically – and sees the shadow of Mark's silhouette slumped against one of the long window panels.

"Stay here for a minute, okay?" he asks Viv. "Everything's going to be fine."

Hoping he's right, he heads for the foyer and pulls open the door.

Mark is standing in the humid darkness, facing away; he turns very slightly when Derek approaches. "What," he says dully, apparently not even able to summon a question mark.

His face looks ravaged. Derek doesn't know who has it worse right now, the little girl inside the house or the man outside it.

"You've been right out here? This whole time?"

"Where did you think I was going to go? My kid's in the house."

"Your kid is a wreck," Derek says bluntly.

Mark's jaw twitches. "I'm doing it wrong. With her. She deserves better, I know that, I just – "

"You both do. You need a break, Mark. You're not sleeping, Meredith said you're at the hospital every minute you're not with Viv." He glances around. "And Amy …"

"She's had to do … other things."

Derek has more of an idea of what those things are now, and feels somewhat guilty. Here are the Sloans and Shepherds intertwined again, this time Jesse's addiction pulling Amy away from the role she's taken on with Viv and Mark.

"Okay. Then let us take her," he says firmly.

Mark doesn't say anything, just shakes his head.

"You can meet with the doctors in the morning, and you can sleep tonight, before you have to … see them," he says, deciding against _make decisions._ "You need to sleep, Mark. We're not interns anymore. You can't go like this. You can't take care of her if you can't function."

He's not sure which _her_ he's talking about, and Mark doesn't ask him to clarify.

But he looks like he's giving it thought.

"You don't have to do this," Mark says finally. Under the exhaustion he sounds almost embarrassed.

"I want to," Derek responds, meeting his eye, and slowly, Mark nods.

When he opens the heavy front door, Vivian is standing just a few feet into the great room, twisting the hem of her wrinkled little shirt in her hands.

"I'm sorry." Mark crosses the floor immediately and kneels down in front of her. "I'm so sorry. I'm not … taking good care of you right now, baby. It's my fault. Not yours."

Vivian is studying him, seeming like she's not sure what to say.

Mark cups her face, moving some of her messy hair away. "How about you go with Derek to see Meredith and Zola tonight and I – "

"No," Viv sobs as soon as she catches on, reaching for her father. "I want to stay with you."

Mark pulls her into his arms and holds her tightly, his voice muffled by her long hair but not so much that Derek can't hear the way it cracks. "I want you to stay with me, baby, but I just – I just need you go with Derek just for a little while. I promise."

"I'll go to bed," she whimpers. "I'll go to bed by myself, okay?"

"No, you don't have to do that, you don't ever have to do that. I didn't mean it, Vivi, I'm sorry." He rocks her a little. "I'm so sorry."

"I'll be really quiet," she barters between tears, clinging to his neck. "I won't be bad anymore."

"You're not bad. You're good. You're so good." He's cradling her head. "Please, baby, I promise it's just for a little while."

Derek waits a respectful distance away, feeling like an intruder but also not sure where he would go.

When Vivian is calmer, coughing through the last of her tears, Mark stands up slowly, wincing a little when he's on his feet. He reaches down to cup Vivian's face, wiping moisture off her cheeks.

"Come on, baby, help me get your things."

Viv refuses and in the end Mark comes back down alone with a bag for her, scooping her stuffed panda off the floor and placing it in her arms. Vivian seems too exhausted to stand, much less complain; she looks dazed when Mark kisses her goodbye and assures her he'll see her very soon.

"Derek…" Mark says brokenly and he just nods, accepting the other man's thanks along with the bag – a different one, a silky fabric of some sort – which he slings onto his arm.

He nods, accepting the other man's thanks. He reaches for Vivian, realizing he's picking her up out of habit, like he would Zola, but she doesn't protest.

"You want to get down and walk?" Derek asks gently as he carries her to the gate.

She shakes her head.

"Okay." He shifts her a little higher to work the latch and closes the gate behind them.

…

It's a text, not a phone call, but Meredith understands why when she reads it, and writes back on the median between comforting and cryptic, just in case.

She checks the time.

There are things to do, before they get back to the apartment.

But first she checks on Zola, who is breathing deeply in slumber with one arm around her cuddly toy and the other flung out toward her mother's pillow, like she's waiting for her. Meredith adjusts the covers, pausing to rest her hand on her daughter's forehead.

With one hand touching Zola's sleep-warmed skin, and the other resting on the small swell of her belly where her other child is growing, Meredith finds herself smiling.

Smiling in spite of how deeply sad are the circumstances that prompted Derek's call.

 _I was right about your dad._ Gently, she strokes Zola's soft cheek. _I've known him all along._

* * *

 _ **To be continued. Thank you to the Lumineers for the apt title and to all of you for sticking with this long, and not always happy, story. I've always known this chapter was coming, but it was hard to write and hard to post. Poor Mark; so many of you accurately predicted he would snap under the pressure, and also that Meredith would be able to have a productive conversation with him. I am enjoying exploring the different ways Derek and Meredith relate to Mark, considering the different length and nature of their respective relationships. I love Meredith's sensitivity, particularly when there's illness involved - as I'm sure you noticed, I lifted one of my favorite lines she's ever said to use in this chapter. I thought it worked here too. Thank you again so much for reading and I hope you will share your thoughts with me; I love to read them and reviews keep me writing!**_


	40. INTERLUDE: first day of my life

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews on the last chapter and for sticking with this very long story. I promise it's going somewhere - all the threads you've been picking up and pointing out are working together. In the meantime, here's another interlude chapter. This is one I intended from the beginning, and it just fell into place here. I planned on about 3,000 words, so it shouldn't surprise anyone who reads my stories that it's closer to 9,000. Exploring this version of MerDer really fascinates me because I think the shattering of trust in canon when Addison shows up was so pivotal to what happened to them - not to mention the failed reconciliation. In this version, things progress differently. But Derek is still Derek, Meredith is still Meredith, and here's how it went for them in this universe.**

* * *

INTERLUDE

 _first day of my life_

 _..._

* * *

 _Work-life balance._

It's a phrase he recalls hearing bandied about when he still lived in Manhattan. Usually from someone with a dark suit and a pinched face with lines of exhaustion. Sometimes it was said longingly, sometimes ironically – but the undertone was always the same: it was unrealistic. Impossible, even.

It was unrealistic for him. When he wasn't working – which was rarely – he was still running on the treadmill that was his life, then, balancing his private practice with teaching and research, declining invitations and obligations to maintain his pace.

It was normal. It was what everyone did.

It's not his normal anymore.

His new normal is … dare he say, _balanced_?

Without a private practice to manage, he can focus entirely on the teaching hospital where he's free to innovate, encouraged to explore. He can remember how much he enjoys teaching and how little he enjoyed the business side of private practice. He falls asleep to the soft sounds of rain instead of traffic. No longer does he need to schedule vacation months in advance, negotiate with work and home to try to indulge his naturistic side: he can wake up in his own bed in his own small, peaceful home, then walk through the woods and fish in a shimmering lake feet away from his property.

Life has its own pace here. It has a soft, blueish tint. It has space – ample space, wide green space, enough space for him to breathe.

It has a woman whose small hand finds his now, as they stand on the deck of the ferry that will bring them across the bay. The wind moves her hair and brings color to her cheeks. He closes his eyes, briefly, to remind himself:

This is real.

This is my life now.

It's been inhale all this time perhaps, no exhale, afraid to disturb the building of a dream.

It's been almost six months.

Almost half a year.

Enough to be real.

It's – dare he even think it – _balanced._

…

They're discreet, at the hospital, for both their sakes' and while it can be difficult, he'd be lying if he said it didn't also sometimes add to the fun of it all, the spark and the energy. He tugs her around a corner for a quick kiss and she tugs him back for a longer one, and then she's gone in the pack of interns and he's touching a finger to his lips, marveling at his new life.

He gathers himself, runs a hand through his hair, and prepares to check on a patient when he spots a figure at the nurses' station that makes his stomach drop.

It can't be.

Can it?

She turns around and he just stares for a moment, feeling a bit like the time he walked into the glass door at his old summer house thinking he was walking inside.

(It didn't break. The door was fine; he was a little bruised, a little shaken.)

"Addison … what are you doing here?"

"Derek." Her face registers surprise, then confusion. "Richard didn't tell you I was coming?"

"No, he didn't."

"Oh! I'm sorry, I thought you – well, I did try to call you." She scrambles for her blackberry. "I tried to call you," she repeats, "more than once, but I got a message saying your number wasn't reachable, so I figured you'd blocked me."

Her tone is rueful as if to say: _and I knew I deserved it._

He can't argue with that.

He stays impassive, but she figured right. It was months ago, when she was still trying to apologize down the phone line, and he hasn't thought about it since.

When he's silent she starts talking again, the timbre of her voice scraping his eardrums after so many months of welcome silence.

"So I couldn't, um, I couldn't reach you but I was sure Richard would have told you already. He asked me to come out here."

"Why?"

"He's pulled a patient from Portland Women's with a – " she pauses. "For a surgery," she says, concise for once. "He has an MFM on maternity leave and he asked me to fly in for the procedure. I really thought Richard told you."

"He didn't."

The conversation circles back; she stops talking, looking embarrassed.

He doesn't feel particularly sorry for her. He's still not quite sure this is actually happening.

It's Seattle. It's his space. His world. It's not supposed to feel like a glass door slamming into his life.

For a moment, Derek studies the woman who used to be his wife. After seeing her nearly every day for a third of his life, he's had several months of absence to forget her face. And he's done so, thoroughly enough that he registers her now as a stranger might.

He still has flickers of memory, though, he supposes – since he notices she's far more put together than the last time he saw her.

And she's pregnant – very pregnant.

He knew this, Nancy alerted him months ago, but it's still somewhat surprising to see this … inflated version of her. Her face is puffier than he's seen it, not with the roundness of youth but something else. And her swollen body; she must be six months along. She's wearing a dress of the clinging maternity sort his mother always frowned on, saying they were showy and _in my day maternity clothes were modest_ so the exact contours of her bump are unavoidable. And her posture, half arched with a hand on her lower back, leaves no remaining doubt.

His only doubt is her presence.

Here, in his hospital.

And Richard knew.

Richard knew, but didn't tell him.

How could Richard not tell him?

Sure, between the malpractice suit and his own tumor, Richard has been busy, but still. Flying Addison to Seattle should have been big enough to make an impression.

Now Addison looks down at her own body, maybe seeing him glance at its new shape, or triggered by the words _maternity leave._ "I'm, uh, I'm pregnant," she says, almost apologetically. "I mean, obviously I'm pregnant, I can't exactly hide it. And Nancy said she told you – "

She stops talking, looking a bit guilty like she's not sure he knew that Nancy still talked to her.

He did, because Nancy told him when she called a few months ago. He thinks about telling her he doesn't care, but doesn't bother.

"Anyway." She looks like she'd rather be anywhere else right now.

 _This_ he can sympathize with.

"Congratulations," he says briefly.

"Thanks." She looks embarrassed. "I mean, I know it's not … the circumstances are – but I'm happy," she says abruptly, and then looks like she wishes she could take it back. "I just meant – "

"It's fine," he interrupts before she can dig a bigger hole.

She presses her lips together. "Thanks," she says again. She pauses. "Richard, um, he said you were seeing someone?"

He shakes his head, anger at his boss swelling inside him. "She's not up for discussion."

"Okay. That's fair. I'm, uh, I'm glad you're doing well."

"So am I," he says honestly.

He fingers the pager on his hip. Of all the times _not_ to be interrupted. Silently, he prays for a hapless resident to reach out … even a crashing patient.

Nothing.

"Look, I really didn't mean to … show up unannounced," Addison says, breaking the silence. Her hand is resting on her pregnancy, her expression far away. She doesn't seem to be lying, but then again the end of their marriage suggested to him that he was no longer expert at reading her – if he ever had been.

"When are you due?" he asks, falling back on polite conversation. Like he might with any pregnant attending who looks like she'd rather be off her heels.

"The end of August," she says, wincing slightly, whether because she has several months left or at the thought of being heavily pregnant in high New York summer.

He glances at the time. "I should get back to work."

"It was good to see you," she says, and then colors a bit more as if she didn't realize what she was saying.

He just nods. "All right. Well. Good luck with your surgery."

"Derek – wait –"

He half turns back. "What is it?"

"I brought some things for you. Papers," she says quickly at his expression, "to sign."

He frowns, confused. "What papers do I need to sign?"

Addison's face flushes and she says something under her breath.

"Excuse me?"

She repeats herself, and this time he catches the word _paternity._

"Paternity?" He raises his voice without realizing it, and sees Preston Burke glance over along with the resident he was speaking with feet away.

Annoyed, he takes her arm to lead her around the corner before anyone else overhears, then realizes what he's doing and lets go before they've found relative privacy.

"Addison, what are you talking about?"

She looks almost as nervous as he suddenly feels. "No, I'm sorry, I just meant – " She draws a deep breath. "Technically, you and I are still married."

He can't help a snort at that.

Technically, indeed.

Her face is very pink now. "Legally speaking, I mean, and so there's an issue with the baby … she's not yours," she says quickly.

"I know that, Addison," he says, annoyed.

"Right. Sorry. But since you and I are … what we are, there's presumed paternity. Yours, I mean. I talked to a lawyer already, but if you want to talk to a different one …?"

"Just tell me what the lawyer said."

"There's paperwork we can do, from the beginning. I already had her tested – even though there was no question," she says hastily; he ignores it and she continues. "The results are in the envelope. We file it and then … Mark puts his name on the birth certificate, our divorce goes through, and that's … that's it."

"That's it," he repeats.

"Right." She's studying her hands. "I was going to send the papers in the mail, but I couldn't reach you and then I figured I was coming here anyway."

"Do you have them with you?"

"No. I mean yes, but not on me right now – Richard gave me a temporary office and my bag is … can we just meet up later?"

"Fine."

He turns to leave and sees, feet away, Meredith standing holding a stack of charts.

There it is again.

A glass door.

"Meredith," he says quickly, and when he turns Addison looks as uncomfortable as he feels.

"OR 3 was preempted," Meredith says slowly, looking from one of them to the other. "So I have some time to chart."

"That's good," he says, his mouth dry. Maybe he'll get lucky and the earth will open up and swallow him whole.

Maybe he'll be luckier and Meredith will come with him. He can recreate this dream-life of theirs in the center of the earth, away from the shadows of his past.

He sees Meredith's expression, sees her take in the situation, sees the question in her eyes.

He should say something. But what? Introduce them? Apologize? Run?

"Hi," Addison says slowly when Derek doesn't fill the silence, holding out a hand, holding out a hand to Meredith. "I'm … Addison."

Meredith's face is unreadable now; she has to shift the charts to one arm to extend her own hand, but she does it. "Meredith," she says, and Derek watches with supreme discomfort as the two women shake hands.

"Okay, well. I'll just … I'm going to go," Addison says then. She glances at Derek, and then looks away quickly. "Nice to meet you, Meredith," she adds.

He's not paying attention. His attention is on Meredith.

"Meredith." He's the one repeating her name now. " _Meredith._ "

He follows her down the hall.

She turns. "What?"

"What – what do you mean, what?"

"What do _you_ mean, _Meredith_?" she counters.

He pauses, trying to make sense of the situation. "Can we talk?" he asks finally.

"I don't know, can we?" She pushes a stray piece of hair out of her face.

"I didn't know she was coming, Mer. I bumped into her and – she's here for a surgery, she's not staying long. Richard called her, apparently." He shouldn't be that surprised; Richard always liked her, despite their occasional conflicts.

"…okay," Meredith says.

"Okay?" he repeats nervously.

"I need to go chart."

"Meredith, wait – "

She doesn't wait.

…

"His wife is here. His _wife_ is here?"

"What do you mean, his wife is here?"

Meredith looks from Cristina, hands propped on her hips, to Izzie, sitting on the gurney with her legs crossed.

"I mean, his wife is here."

"His actual wife, like, from New York?"

"Unless he has another one – don't," she adds, glaring at Cristina. "He doesn't."

"His actual wife. Do people, like, know?" Izzie asks, looking concerned.

"I don't know." Meredith grimaces. "I think the chief knows her. And she's just like … here, so I guess they do. I don't know."

"You saw her?" Cristina confirms.

Meredith nods. "I saw her."

"What's she like?"

"Izzie!" Cristina glares.

"I'm just wondering."

"She's ugly. Very ugly. Except she's tall and beautiful." Meredith swipes a hank of limp hair out of her face. Why does work have to be so … sweaty? And unglamorous? Except for Derek's ex-wife, that is.

"I'm sorry, Meredith," Izzie says in a serious tone. "I was crossing my fingers she'd be fat."

"Well, you might have been crossing them too hard," Meredith says ruefully. "Because she is fat."

"Oh." Izzie brightens. "Well, that's good."

"No, not _fat_ fat."

"How can you be fat, but not _fat_ fat?" Cristina asks, raising her eyebrows.

Alex skids up just then, interrupting, wearing the grin of someone who has gossip to share. "Dude. Dude!" He waits for everyone's attention. "Shepherd's wife is here and she's _pregnant!_ "

All eyes turn to Meredith.

"… when you're pregnant-fat," she concludes.

First they're all silent.

Just for a shocked moment.

And then they're all talking at once.

Alex is the loudest.

"Mer's going to be a stepmommy."

"Shut up." Meredith shakes her head. "That's not how it works."

"So before this you didn't know he had a wife, now you didn't know she was pregnant." Alex raises his eyebrows. "What won't you know next?"

"Shut up, evil spawn." Cristina moves closer, protectively, but she doesn't look totally convinced. "It's not, like, _his_ baby, is it?"

"No, of course not."

"Good." Izzie looks relieved.

"He told you that?" Alex grins. "He's _good_ , all right."

He didn't tell her that. He didn't tell her anything.

For the second time in their growing relationship, he pulled the rug out from under her instead.

…

"Dr. Bailey – Dr. Bailey, I need to find Meredith."

Bailey looks incredulous … and unimpressed.

"Dr. Shepherd, _Dr. Grey_ is on duty," she says.

"I know that." He's chastened. "I just – I really need to talk to her. Do you know where – "

She shakes her head. "The chief had a special assignment for her."

"A special – "

…

She doesn't put it together at _TTTS._

Why would she?

She's as intrigued by fetal surgery as any intern would be.

Except that when she walks into the exam room, chart in hand, at the chief's instructions – the surgeon who turns around, clearly having just arrived herself, is Derek's former wife.

Addison – she has a name, Meredith knows, _Addison_ , not just The Woman Who Slept With Her Husband's Best Friend – looks almost as uncomfortable as Meredith feels.

Meredith tries to focus on the patient.

 _You're an intern. You're here to learn._

"Hi Cheryl, I'm Doctor Montgomery." Addison is trying to smooth things over, which she appreciates.

But the patient's face registers panic. "Montgomery? But they said Dr. Shepherd was coming. They promised! Dr. Wong said she's the best."

Addison's expression registers the awkwardness in the room. "It's all right, Cheryl, please try to stay calm. It's, uh … I'm Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd," she says, stumbling a little over the _Shepherd_ part, "but I'd appreciate your calling me Dr. Montgomery."

"Okay," the patient says in a small voice.

"Now. Dr. Wong has filled me in but I'd like to speak to you about our plans. Dr. …" she glances at Meredith's ID badge, "… Grey is going to assist me."

She gestures toward Meredith.

The patient nods, looking slightly reassured.

Which is a lot more than Meredith can say.

…

It would be easier to hate Addison for what she did to Derek, and for walking back into his life practically about to give birth, for stomping all over Meredith's territory, if she hadn't turned out to be a pretty incredible surgeon.

She takes time to explain during the procedure but doesn't talk down to Meredith or the patient, either. And as for the skill it takes to separate fetal blood vessels …

 _She's an attending. I'm an intern. She's supposed to be better than me,_ that's what Meredith has to keep repeating to herself.

And at the end of the day – or rather the end of the surgery, which is a success and one of the most fascinating procedures Meredith has observed this year – it's about the patient.

Isn't it?

Surgeons can't afford emotion, that's what she reminds herself. So she didn't bring it into the OR.

But now, the procedure complete, scrubbing out side by side with her boyfriend's former wife …

Addison is scrubbing mechanically, but then she pauses, stretching her back a little and drying her hand, then rubbing it along the prominent swell of her stomach. "Sorry," she says when she notices Meredith looking. "She gets antsy – the baby, I mean. I think she can tell when I'm scrubbing out."

The idea is amusing, if she could forget for a moment who this woman is.

But she can't.

"Meredith …?"

She looks up, surprised by the use of her first name.

"I didn't – about what happened in the patient's room before … I'm using Montgomery professionally now, it's just that I can't legally change it yet…"

"I understand."

"Oh. Well, thank you." Addison pauses. "I didn't know you were the intern assigned to my surgery," she says quietly. "Richard told me he'd take care of it, and I didn't ask or … anything."

"It's fine." Meredith leans slightly against the scrub sink, grounding herself.

"Look, Meredith, I don't want to make you uncomfortable but I want to tell you something about Derek – "

"Please don't." Meredith keeps her tone respectful and steady even though internally her voice is shaking. "I'd appreciate it if we could just keep things professional."

Addison looks surprised, but she nods.

"Right. Well, professionally speaking, you did a good job in there, Dr. Grey."

"Thank you, Dr. Montgomery."

They resume scrubbing out in silence. Addison is finished first, and she pauses halfway out the swinging door. "I just wanted to say one thing." Her voice is low, and Meredith glances over. "It wasn't Derek's fault. It was mine. That's all."

"Okay." Meredith nods, and the door swings shut behind the woman who is still legally married to the man she loves.

…

"Meredith! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Meredith frowns, drawing back. They've been good at observing boundaries in the hospital, and she's not eager to change that. "Why?"

"You were assigned to her case."

"I know." Meredith swipes her hair out of her eyes.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Do what – my _job_?" Meredith shakes her head. "I'm an intern. It's not optional."

 _Take it up with the chief,_ she thinks, but doesn't say out loud.

"I can't believe – " he searches her face. "Was it – are you okay? Talk to me."

 _The way you talk to me?_

She doesn't say it out loud, just gives Derek the most reassuring smile she can. "It was fine, Derek. I'm an intern. She's an attending. I scrubbed in, I assisted, I scrubbed out. And now I have to chart, so …"

"Right." He glances at the chart in her hands.

…

But he's angry.

He's finally, suddenly, _angry._

The anger that didn't flood him the night his wife and best friend informed him they'd been having an affair, the anger that eluded him when he saw Addison for the first time in months, her body swollen with her adulterous pregnancy … now, it's here.

Now that Meredith is threatened.

It's here.

It doesn't take long to find her. She looks up, seeing him approach, and smiles nervously; the smiles drops off when she takes in his expression.

"Derek – "

"You had Meredith assigned to your case?" He speaks over her, not bothering to modulate his voice. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Addison's eyes widen at his tone. "I didn't do that."

"Really? Because the board doesn't lie."

 _Unlike some people_ , he thinks.

"No. I mean … she did assist me but I didn't know she'd be the one until the exam room."

Derek exhales sharply. "That's believable," he scoffs.

"It's true, whether it's believable or not." She frowns at his sarcasm. "Why, did Meredith say – "

"What she said has nothing to do with this," he cuts her off.

"Derek, would you just – "

"No. I'm not discussing this. I would appreciate," he says calmly, "if you would stay away from her."

Addison blinks. "I didn't … approach her, Derek."

Hearing his name in her voice sets his teeth on edge. Swallowing, he inhales deeply, reminding himself she'll be gone soon.

"She did a good job," Addison says tentatively. "Her skills are – "

"Stay away from her," he repeats, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Just … do what you need to do with your patient, and leave."

"That's what I'm trying to do!" Her voice shakes and he finds himself massaging his temples, hoping she doesn't flip out – that's all he needs right now. He's already getting dirty looks in the hallway as the most personal parts of his personal life turn into hospital gossip. He doesn't want to add made-the-very-pregnant-visiting-surgeon-cry to the list.

"All right. Fine." He lowers his voice, hoping she will too. "Do you have that paperwork?"

…

"Shepherd."

He's drinking coffee, trying to calm himself down and aware it's somewhat counterintuitive, when he hears his name. He turns to see Dr. Bailey at the other side of the nurses' station.

"How's my intern?" she asks.

"Which one?"

"The one we share." Bailey gives him a meaningful look as she approaches. When she gets to his side, she lowers her voice. "All Richard told me was that he needed an intern for a special procedure with a visiting surgeon. That's it. I didn't know it was … an issue," she says diplomatically. "He actually got _me_ to choose Grey, because she was the least incompetent one in my pack last week."

Derek takes a moment to feel a flash of pride over this.

Bailey shakes her head. "I didn't have a choice."

"I know. It's not your fault." He glances at her. "Really."

He's almost forgotten that Richard, for all that he could be a beloved mentor, tended toward being a puppetmaster as well. Hadn't he done it to Addison all those years ago, when they were interns? He cost himself a year of her pupilage and to what end? As much as Derek can still acknowledge her brilliance now, if anything, Addison ended up _more_ involved after Richard's little stunt.

"And you didn't know your … issue … was flying out here?" Bailey asks.

Derek shakes his head.

"Shepherd, I'm gonna tell you what I told you when I found out about your … relationship." She says the word like it tastes bad. "Don't you hurt my intern."

"Believe me, that's the last thing I want to do."

Bailey studies his face for a moment. "I actually believe you. Either I'm losing my edge or those puppy-dog eyes of yours are starting to work on me."

"Or I'm just being honest," Derek suggests.

Bailey points her pen at him. "Don't push it, Shepherd."

…

He finds Meredith in the interns' study room, wavy hair spilling over the hand supporting her head. She looks up, highlighter in hand.

"You're not supposed to be in here," she says.

"I was an intern once."

"A long time ago." Meredith caps the pen and sets it down.

"Yeah." He pulls out a chair at her table and then pauses at her expression.

"I need to study."

His fingers fold over the back of the chair as he tries to encourage himself. _We can fix this._

"I thought you weren't upset," he says hesitantly.

"I'm not upset about assisting your wife in the OR, Derek. The surgery was amazing." She leans back in her chair, looking up at him. "I'm upset that you _have_ a wife."

"You already knew that," he says weakly.

"I knew that you had a wife. I didn't know you had a pregnant wife."

"Please stop calling her my wife."

"But she is!" Meredith shakes her head with frustration. "I know, please don't tell me the technicalities again – the legalities – whatever. I get it, Derek. I even … respected it, but that was before _it_ showed up in my hospital fifteen months pregnant!"

His lips twitch as he fights amusement at her exaggeration.

"Do you think this is funny? It's not funny."

"I know it's not funny," he says tiredly. "Meredith, I'm sorry, but I've had a very long day."

"So have I," she says evenly. "I spent the day with my boyfriend's pregnant wife, and when I wasn't doing an amazing surgery with her – you never told me she was amazing – I was listening to people try to stop gossiping about her when I walked by then in the hallway."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I," she says.

"Meredith, I didn't know she was coming to Seattle. I told you."

"And I believe you, Derek – but you did know she was pregnant, didn't you?"

He nods.

"Well, I didn't. Because you didn't tell me. And so _I_ look like an idiot now."

"You look like an idiot – to whom? The other interns? Why do you care what they think?"

"They're my friends. Of course I care what they think."

He's not sure what to say to that.

"It's not my baby," he says abruptly, suddenly realizing he hasn't said that yet.

"I know that." She sighs. "You think I don't know that?"

He gives her a quizzical look.

"If it were your baby … you would have tried to work it out."

He never thought of it that way. He studies his hands for a moment.

"Derek … why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't – it wasn't a conscious decision." He holds his hands up. "My sister called me, months ago, and told me, and then I just … forgot about it."

"Like you forgot you were married when we met."

He hangs his head. "It didn't have anything to do with you," he says finally, quietly.

"Didn't have anything to do with me?" she repeats incredulously. "Seriously?"

He just looks at her helplessly, not sure what to say.

That he feels like the victim here?

He has a feeling that won't go over well.

Meredith is still staring at him.

"You really don't get it." She shakes her head. "Derek, you don't get to unilaterally decide something has _nothing_ to do with me. Your stuff by definition has to do with me! We're together." She pauses. "Or are we?"

"Of course we are. My marriage is over, Meredith. It was over a long time before I even met you. She doesn't want me back, I don't want her back."

Richard is another story, but he doesn't get a vote.

"I know that."

"You do?" He's confused. "Then why – "

"Because you didn't tell me."

They're back to this. He sighs, remembering that their relationship must feel more insecure to her; after all, it's her first serious one. "Meredith," he softens his voice, "I know you haven't done this before, and I know it's –"

" _Seriously_?" She cuts him off, widening her already wide eyes. "If you're going to act like this is – on me, because I don't understand how to have a boyfriend or whatever … I'm going to walk out of here."

"Don't," he says immediately, feeling panic rise within him. "Meredith, please."

She shakes her head.

"Don't walk out, Mer."

"I'm not," she says, her voice softening as she rests a hand on the doorknob. "I'm just … walking away."

" _Meredith_."

"Not for show. Not forever. Just … for now. Come talk to me when you're ready," she says quietly.

"I'm ready now."

"When you're ready," she continues, "to share your life."

He watches the door close behind her.

Nearly five months now.

Three thousand miles.

A relationship carefully built – different this time – now threatened with his past slapping them both in the face.

He rests his head against the cool plaster of the wall of the room where he's not welcome.

…

His head is spinning – regret, confusion – when he crosses paths with Preston Burke.

They're … something. Rivals, friends, both? But the look in Burke's eyes makes him pause.

"I met your wife," he says quietly.

"She's not my wife." He forces his voice to remain steady.

"Your ex-wife." Preston glances at him. "Her ID badge says Shepherd."

"Did you read her file too?"

"I did not read her file." Preston pauses before continuing in his silky voice. "You've been circumspect, Dr. Shepherd, since you started here."

"You're pretty circumspect yourself, Dr. Burke."

The other doctor nods, accepting this. "And yet, Dr. Shepherd … the women in our lives are best friends. Not counting your wife."

"She's not my wife." He raises his voice, then shakes his head angrily when a cluster of residents glances his way.

Burke is just looking at him.

"And it's not my baby," he adds, quietly.

"No?"

"No," Derek says sharply. "I know that, and she knows that. It's no one else's business."

Burke is just staring at him.

"What?" He shakes his head. "Don't start being tactful now."

"You seem confident, that's all." Burke pauses. "Trusting," he adds, and there's something almost like pity in his eyes. _Cuckold_ , he might as well say.

"I trust that people will act consistently," Derek says, narrowing his eyes. "For example, Dr. Burke, I trust that you'll be patronizing, maybe a little pretentious. I trust that Dr. Bailey will be blunt. And yes, I trust that double board-certified fetal surgeon knows how to run a paternity screen. It's a different skill from knowing how to keep your wedding vows."

Burke looks slightly – is it possible? – chastened.

The victory is brief.

…

He sleeps alone that night.

Rain drums the trailer on all four sides, reminding him how much space surrounds his small living quarters. And he lies on the side of the bed he's come to think of as his – _his_ as opposed to _hers_ , except that without her it feels wrong.

They spend nights apart, if she's on call or he's detained, and once in a while they spend a night at her house, but the trailer has still come to feel like it's _theirs._ He wants to wake up with her small warm body curled into his, hear her sleep-husky voice whisper _catch us something good_ when he peels himself away in the early morning, see her expression of amusement at his excitement and then satisfaction when he returns from the lake. He wants to bundle up in blankets and sit on the narrow porch, her legs over his, drinking hot coffee and watching the mist rise off the surface of the water. It's the persistent humidity, perhaps, the difference in air quality, but his Seattle life has that same misty quality as their morning ritual – something delicate, vaporous.

Like a dream.

…

Reality hits in the morning, when he wakes up cold with his body curved toward the empty place next to him. Her undented pillow screams in silence: _you screwed up. You did this._

Mechanically he walks through his routine – because that's all it is, _routine_ , today – marveling at how good it was.

Past tense.

 _Come find me when you're ready … to share your life._

That's what she said, and he knows she meant it. She's Meredith, she means what she says.

Toothpaste souring on his tongue, he thinks about her words, the expression of hurt in her wide cat's eyes. Was she right? Has he been reticent to share?

He's told her more about his past than he has anyone else in Seattle.

And look where his past has gotten him –

Alone, in the present.

He tosses his toothbrush down in disgust.

 **…**

He checks the board for her name – it's habit, he tells himself, he's still respecting her request for space. He finds his eyes tracking each slight figure in blue scrubs he catches in the corner of his vision, but it's never her.

 _Come find me when you're ready to share your life._

There's a glimpse of her down the hallway on three, finally, but she's with Cristina, who shoots him a look of loathing which, combined with her protective stance, encourages him to keep his distance.

So he pours himself into work.

If he can't solve his own problems, he can solve his patients'. Mid-afternoon, he's in his office, earbuds delivering the rhythm to which he's reviewing a set of scans.

A shadow falls across his desk.

He's hopeful, for a moment –

But it's not her. He removes the earbud that would have drowned out the clacking of her heels – Meredith sounds different.

Meredith _is_ different.

"Sorry, I was just – did you, um, did you have a chance to sign?"

"I signed." He doesn't look at her, just gestures toward the file folder on the corner of his desk.

"Thank you." She pauses. "My patient is doing well. I'm, uh, I'm flying back tonight."

When he glances up, she's resting a hand on her pregnant belly, looking past him. He sees her move her hand with a quizzical expression.

In spite of himself, he asks: "Is something wrong?"

"Hm?" She looks up, distracted. "Oh, no, sorry. She's just moving around." A slow smile starts on her face. "it shouldn't be this exciting, when I've been monitoring pregnancies for twelve years, but … it is."

She seems to realize who she's talking to and a look of embarrassment replaces the smile.

"Sorry," she says again, her face flushing.

"It's fine." He waves a hand. He'd like to be angry with her – it would feel better than anger with himself for not opening up to Meredith – but he can grudgingly admit it's not Addison's fault he chose not to share certain details with his girlfriend. "I'm glad it's, uh, it's going well."

His words are vague, and he's fairly certain they sound insincere, but she accepts them.

"Me too. That you are, I mean." She pauses, looking like she's trying to decide whether to say something. "Derek … I'm not trying to make things worse, but Mark asked me to tell you – "

"Don't," he says, and she stops immediately.

"Okay. I understand." She glances once more at the file she's holding. "I'll, uh, I'll get this to the lawyer when I'm back in New York and she'll file and you'll get your own copies, so … that should be that."

It should, shouldn't it?

"Thank you," she adds quietly.

She doesn't say for what – for not calling her an adulteress, for signing the paperwork that benefits him as much as it does her, for … leaving without a fight? Like she's doing now.

He just nods. "Take care," he says as he turns back to his computer.

He has MRI film to review.

…

The sun is sinking over the bay as he crosses the catwalk, sending apricot-colored rays over linoleum and illuminating the back of Richard's lab coat.

Derek speeds up to catch him.

"Chief. _Chief._ "

Richard must see the intent in his eyes, because he steps closer and lowers his voice.

"Derek, I'm not sure what you – "

"How could you – what were you thinking? Is this a joke to you? Making Meredith work with Addison without telling either of them what they were getting into?"

"It's not a joke." Richard looks grim. "Assigning my interns – "

"She's not your intern!"

"That's where you're wrong. This is my hospital. She's my intern. They're all my interns. What am _I_ doing, Derek? What are you doing, sleeping with an intern?"

He winces. "We're in a relationship," he says tightly, "which you knew, not that it's any of your business."

"It's my business. You're married."

He thinks about what Meredith told him about Richard, but forces himself not to sink to his level. "I'm separated, which you also know. In nine months, I'll be divorced. It's just a technicality."

"Nine months," Richard repeats meaningfully, and Derek feels more anger flood him.

"You really think – it's not mine, Richard, so please don't tell me you actually thought it was."

The chief looks – relieved, though, so maybe he did.

"No. Not really." Richard glances over his shoulder. "I wondered," he admits quietly.

"So you assigned Meredith to work with her."

Richard doesn't respond.

"I hope it was worth it." Anger floods him again. "Flying her out here, putting Meredith through it, putting _me_ through it."

"You and I know Addie's the best at what she does. Flying her out here wasn't personal. It was for the patient."

"It was personal to me," Derek says tightly. "And you should have warned me."

Richard doesn't respond.

"I won't be in tomorrow." Derek hoists his bag to his shoulder.

"Derek – what's that supposed to mean?"

"Work-life balance, Richard. Why do you think I moved out to Seattle?"

He doesn't wait for an answer.

…

He drives straight to Queen Anne, _do not pass go, do not collect $200_ , and then stand outside his jeep with his hands in his pockets, surveying the rambling gingerbread house where, six months ago, he spent the first night of the rest of his life.

His knock is full of purpose, but it's not Meredith who opens the door.

It's a … pack of them, Stevens and O'Malley and Cristina Yang, too.

"Meredith doesn't want to see you," Stevens says.

"Go away," Yang adds without emotion.

Derek frowns. "You don't even live here," he reminds her.

"We do," Stevens says, and O'Malley, her little shadow, nods along. "And like we said, Meredith doesn't want to see you."

He blinks, taking in their disrespect – it's not the hospital, it's their unspoken agreement that he's only their boss in those four walls, but still.

"Meredith doesn't want to see me," he repeats. "Can she tell me that herself?"

"No," Yang says.

"No," Stevens repeats.

"No," O'Malley adds.

"Yes."

He looks up in surprise at the new voice. It's Meredith, standing on the bottom step of the staircase, half in and half out of his sight.

"Meredith," he says quietly.

Yang rolls her eyes, moving to block his view. "Go away," she says.

"Cris – it's okay."

Meredith is standing behind the others now, green eyes fixed on Derek. He has the feeling, as he has so many times before, that she can see directly through him.

" _Fine._ " Yang pushes open the screen door so hard Derek has to jump back.

"What are you doing?" Stevens pokes her head out.

"I'm leaving," Yang says. "If we're not stonewalling him, I'm leaving. If _she's_ getting laid," she points at Meredith, "then I'm getting laid. I'll be at Burke's."

O'Malley wrinkles his nose. "Gross."

"You know you love it." Yang brushes past Derek, not gently. "Mer, don't do anything tequila can't fix," she adds.

"I'm not getting laid," Meredith contradicts her.

"That's what you say now." Yang sighs.

"Meredith," Derek says again, before he has to listen to more of this. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

…

They end up in his jeep.

"I'm sorry," he says, one hand resting on the steering wheel. In the moonlit car, mostly surrounded in protective darkness, talking feels a little easier. "I, uh, I didn't know she was coming."

"I know," Meredith says quietly.

"I knew she was pregnant but it didn't occur to me to – I told you, that night in the trailer, I just blocked them out. When I left Manhattan. They stopped existing to me. And that included … information about them, everything. My sister called to tell me she was pregnant, and I just – I knew it couldn't be mine, and so I just … blocked that out too."

Meredith is silent for a moment.

"Did you wonder?" she asks quietly.

"If the baby could be mine?" He shakes his head. "How much math do you want to know?"

"Math?"

"We hadn't had sex in … four months, by the time I moved out here."

"Four months." Meredith sounds disbelieving. "Four months without sex – you?"

"Yeah, me." He laughs mirthlessly.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for going more than four days." He hears the slight smile in her voice. "Four hours, sometimes." She pauses. "How did you live like that?"

"I wasn't living. Not really." He tries to summon those last few months before he changed his life – it feels far away, like someone else's molasses-footed existence. "Maybe she was already sleeping with Mark, I don't know, but our marriage wasn't good for a long time before I left."

Meredith is quiet, listening. "Addison … she said something to me, in the scrub room."

"What did she say?" he asks, a protective surge swelling up in him. If she upset Meredith …

"Not like that." Her voice is soothing. "She said that what happened between you was her fault, not yours."

"Oh." He considers this. It's not like Addison to take so much responsibility, in his experience; maybe Mark has been good for her.

Meredith is so willing to take all of him, his good and his bad, and he could let her have this illusion – let himself have it – but he draws a deep breath instead.

 _When you're ready to share your life._

"It wasn't all her fault," he says. "Having an affair was her fault," he amends, "but what happened to our marriage … I was partly responsible for that."

Meredith is listening quietly, not pushing him.

"Do you remember asking me if I was a terrible husband? When you first found out I was married, and that she slept with my best friend?"

"Yes."

"I said no, then. I … wasn't a terrible husband, by that definition. I didn't cheat, I wasn't violent or cruel or irresponsible. But I was a little … absent. Toward the end, the last few years, I was absent. Not that it's an excuse for what she did. But we didn't fight for it. Neither of us. I was a bad husband." He pauses. "It's my fault too."

He feels Meredith's hand over his. "You hold yourself to a pretty high standard."

"I'm a brain surgeon."

"I knew you were going to say that."

Her hand moves, and she's touching his face. "Maybe you were a bad husband," she says softly. "But you're a good boyfriend."

"That's not what you said yesterday."

She lowers her hand. "You're _good_ ," she says. "You are. But you're closed, sometimes, Derek – and I get it, after what happened to you, what happened to your marriage. You deserve to be … damaged, from that."

"I'm not damaged," he says immediately.

"Not like that. I just – angry," she corrects herself, "you deserve to be angry."

"I'm not, though. I'm not angry with her. I was," he admits, "when I thought she set you up to work with her."

"She didn't," Meredith says quickly. "She was just as surprised as I was."

"I know that now. So I'm angry with Richard, for setting you up."

There's a period of silence where he can tell she's thinking of something.

"Meredith?"

"You wouldn't have left her," she says as if she's realizing it while she speaks.

"What do you mean?"

"Addison. You wouldn't have left her, even though you were both checked out, even though you weren't having sex. If she hadn't done what she did, you would have stayed."

He exhales. "I guess I would have."

It's an embarrassing admission, one that makes him feel weak and foolish. But it's the truth and he can tell Meredith can tell from the way she leans forward to capture his lips with hers.

"Then I'm glad she did what she did," Meredith says softly when she pulls back.

"Yeah. I'm glad she did what she did too."

They're both quiet for a moment, her head resting against his shoulder.

"Sharing our lives." He repeats her words from earlier.

"It scares me too," she admits. "You're not the only one."

His hand travels up and down the arm of her sweater. "I was married for eleven years," he says quietly.

Meredith sits up. "I wasn't," she says, "but that doesn't mean that I –"

"No, let me finish. I was married for eleven years," he repeats. "I didn't touch another woman or even think about it for fifteen. I'm out of practice. I'm new. I'm … bad at this."

His words hang in the air.

"And I'm not used to being bad at things."

"Now that sounds more like you." Her voice is gently teasing.

"I'm as new at this as you are, maybe more so," he admits, "because I have bad habits to break but I want to break them."

Break them open, maybe.

"We don't have to do everything at once," Meredith says softly. "I just want to be open with each other."

"I want that too." His throat aches with how much he wants it and then she's in his arms. They hold each other strongly for a moment, making up for the loss of the last day, and then she pulls back and smiles up at him.

"Want to get out of the car?" she asks.

"Together?"

"Together."

"Then yes." He rests a hand on the steering wheel. "You want to go out to the trailer?"

"No," she says, surprising him. "I mean – I love it there, don't get me wrong. The view alone – the mist rising off the lake in the morning … but I'm an intern, Derek. I live here. This is who I am, these are my friends, this is my life. They're important to me. And _you're_ important to me. And I want to share the things that are important to me.

He nods slowly, taking it in. "I want you to share them too."

"So we can sleep here tonight?"

"We can sleep here tonight."

"And more often," she says, "some of the time?"

A sudden banging on the window makes them both jump before he can answer.

"Cristina!" Meredith is half laughing, half yelping. "What are you doing? I thought you were leaving?"

"I was, but I figured I'd wait to see the rating here first."

"Seriously?"

"No," she admits, "Izzie baked some cake thing and I figured I'd get fat before I left. So." She looks from one of them to the other. "Any more secrets? Illegitimate kids? Sex change?"

"Cristina." Meredith shakes her head. "Go away."

"That's my line."

"Now it's mine." Meredith's tone is fond, though. "Go to Burke's."

"Fine. Just – be careful," Yang says, peering into the car one more time.

Derek finds himself touched that Yang wants to protect her friend, even if it's misplaced.

"Ugh," Yang says, apparently seeing his expression. "Don't be gross, I didn't mean, like, _feelings_." She tosses something small into the car that hits his shoulder.

A condom.

"Like I said, be careful."

And then she's gone before any outrage can register.

Derek shakes his head when they're alone again. "She is just …"

"Yeah." Meredith sounds affectionate, though.

"She looks out for you," Derek offers.

"We look out for each other. But … yeah, she does."

"Good."

And then he blinks.

"Meredith – what are you doing?"

Because she's climbing over him, quick and limber, and he feels his body respond even as his mouth tries to figure out what's happening.

"No reason to waste a good condom."

He laughs in spite of himself. "I thought we were talking."

"We _were_ talking. The talking already happened. We talked."

"Are you sure?"

"Derek … I don't want to be careful right now." She grins down at him, lit by the moon. "You know? I just want to be … us."

"And _us_ is having sex in this car?" His hands are skimming under her sweater as he speaks, she's laughing against his lips.

"You know what, I think it is." She draws back and pulls her sweater over her head. "It's not the only thing that's us, but it's one of them. Sound like a plan?"

"It does." Derek says, pulling her closer and trailing his lips down the shivering flesh she's exposed. He pauses. "Do we like plans?"

"No." She tangles her fingers in his hair as he tastes her skin. "We like _now._ "

"Now," he repeats. "Okay. Now it is."

And then he doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to. The rest of the world falls away as he finds his balance in her.

* * *

 _ **And that's all she wrote (for now). Next time, back to the present storyline. I enjoyed exploring this period in their relationship - I think that even though there's no reconciliation, hint of one, or desire for one, Derek's instinct to block out his past and Meredith's to turn to her friends for support would still be part of their lives. And as for Richard's machinations ... well, we all know what he was like in canon. I would love to know what you thought of this interlude, so I hope you will review and tell me. Thank you so much and I hope you all have wonderful weekends!**_


	41. one red thread

_**A/N: Hi all, thank you so much for the reviews on last chapter's interlude, and also for your continued interest in what's happening in the story's present timeline. So here we are, back in the main timeline, picking up where Chapter 39 left off. This is a very long chapter, and I hope you enjoy it.**_

* * *

 _one red thread  
..._

* * *

"Where's Zola?" Vivian asks hoarsely when Derek pauses outside the door of their temporary apartment to dig out his keys. They're the first words she's spoken since they left the Sloans' townhouse – Viv was so quiet on the cab ride that Derek thought she might have fallen asleep, but her eyes were open when he caught sight of them in the taillights of passing cars. Vivian made no effort to get herself out of the cab when they pulled up at their building; he carried her through the lobby – the doorman, if he wonders why Derek has made a habit of going out late at night to bring little girls back to the apartment, thankfully says nothing about it.

"Zola's sleeping," Derek tells her now, shifting her in his arms so he can unlock the door. "It's late. But you'll see her in the morning."

Vivian doesn't respond.

Meredith pulls open the door before he's finished unlocking it – she must have been waiting for them. Their eyes meet, silently.

"Hey, Viv," Meredith says softly. "It's good to see you."

Vivian turns her head into Derek's shoulder, surprising him, but he knows she's exhausted. Meredith gives no sign of concern or offense, just calmly relieving Derek of the bag Mark handed him in the townhouse – he can see in the dim light of the entryway that it's a cheerful-looking polka dot. Viv, who is still clutching her panda, makes no move to get down.

"Why don't you help her get ready for bed," Meredith suggests quietly.

Derek nods. "You should go back to sleep." He understands that Meredith stayed up to see Viv – and he wouldn't expect anything else or anything less, knowing her the way he does. But if Vivian seems uncomforted by – or even disturbed by – her presence, there's no reason for Meredith to exhaust herself.

"In a minute," Meredith says, sounding distracted. She smiles at Viv, whose face is solemn and half-hidden by her panda's fur. At Meredith's urging, Derek carries Vivian through the apartment to the hall bathroom she's used before.

"Look, your things are still here." He shows her the little green and pink striped canvas bag where she packed her toothbrush and toothpaste for her last visit. She permits him to set her down on the tile floor, and he waits for her outside the door to give her some privacy. When the door opens again, Viv smells vaguely minty and still looks completely exhausted.

"I think you still have some pajamas here from last time," he tells her, realizing he's still not certain whether she's dressed for sleep already, and hoping she won't be offended. She follows him into the junior bedroom they intended for Zola – the one even Zola now thinks of as Viv's room – without speaking.

Her canvas bag is hanging on the door of the closet; she roots through it, apparently looking for something.

"You want some help?"

She shakes her head.

"Okay, I'm going to wait outside for you then."

She doesn't respond, but he waits just outside the closed door anyway, until he feels the pressure of the turning knob against the small of his back. He steps away quickly to let her out. Vivian is wearing dark blue short sleeved pajamas; both the top and matching shorts are printed with images of the solar system – ringed planets, stars.

"They're from the boys' department," Viv says in her husky little voice. "But my mom said that doesn't matter."

"Your mom was right," he tells her quickly, rather surprised to hear her say so much unprompted. He hopes she didn't think he was looking askance at her choice. "They're great pajamas. Besides, everyone likes space."

Vivian looks down at her night clothes. When she looks up again, her thumb is in her mouth.

"Okay." Derek smiles at her, trying to sound reassuring. "Are you ready to get into bed?"

Viv looks between the little neatly-made bed and the doorway and shakes her head mutely.

 _Great._

Regretting not asking a different question, he extends a hand. "You want to get a drink of water first?"

She doesn't respond, and ducks around his proffered hand, but she follows him toward the kitchen. Meredith is standing in the hallway still – he gives her a puzzled look, and Viv shoots a wary glance at her, shadowing him closely across the floor.

He's not sure what's caused this shift but doesn't push it, just leads Vivian into the kitchen and pours cold water into a green sippy cup. "I know you can drink out of a real glass," he assures her, passing the cup into her hands, "but I think Zola would like sharing this one with you. Okay?"

She nods, and Derek is relieved. Truthfully, she looks so exhausted he's not sure how much she can hold up anything, much less a glass.

Viv takes a miniscule sip and then hands the sippy cup back to Derek, makes her way to the bathroom, and closes the door firmly.

Okay, then.

Derek exchanges a glance with Meredith, who's still leaning against the wall. "Did you do something I missed to piss her off?" he asks mildly, taking up the spot next to her.

"Showed up at the hospital," Meredith says, "after Mark made it seem like we were the enemy."

"It was a rhetorical question, but I see your point." Derek glances toward the door, where Meredith appears to be looking. "Are you waiting for something?"

There's a soft knock just as he finishes his question.

Meredith pushes off the wall and he watches her open the door, exchange some words with someone he can't see, and return with … two large wooden baby gates.

"Are you planning to live here until Junior learns to crawl?" He relieves her of the gates, which are heavier than they look.

"Not quite." Meredith points toward the kitchen. "I realized the building might have some, and I was thinking we could put them in the kitchen doorways."

"For Viv," Derek realizes, "in case she sleepwalks."

"Right. But we can tell her it's for Zola, if she asks."

"You're brilliant." He leans forward, gates in his arms, and kisses her cheek. "Have I ever told you you're brilliant?"

"A few times." Meredith watches, arms folded, as Derek sets up the gates in both of the open kitchen archways.

"There." He stands back. "She could open these if she wants, though, couldn't she? Or climb over? She's almost six."

"Sure, if she were awake. But we only need to keep them up at night," Meredith says. "Apparently it's better if they're not up during the day, and then if the kid bumps into them at night they turn around instead of trying to get through."

"Like Pac-Man, you mean?"

"Very funny." Meredith shakes her head. "It's something about muscle memory, there are certain environmental changes that can …" her voice trails off. "What?"

"You researched this."

"I may have researched this," she says, her tone a little defensive. "Not _medically_ , Derek, just, you know, some parents' forums and things like that. I was wondering what worked for other people."

He covers the minimal ground between them, takes her face in his hands, and kisses her deeply.

"What did it for you, was it _parents' forums_?" she teases when he withdraws. "Or _medically_?"

Vivian emerges from the bathroom then. She looks very small from all the way across the living room.

"I'm going to see if I can get her to sleep," Derek says. "Now that you've set these up … why don't you go back to bed?"

"I'm going," she assures him. Giving him a brief kiss, she walks past him toward their bedroom. "Good night, Viv," she says, "I'll see you in the morning." Vivian just blinks and doesn't respond.

And then it's just the two of them. Derek heads toward the junior bedroom, then notices that Vivian hasn't moved.

"Viv?"

"Is Zola's grandma here?" she asks abruptly.

"Not tonight. She's at Zola's aunt's house – remember, we all went there, and went swimming?"

Vivian doesn't respond; Derek notices her looking down the hallway. "Would you like to sleep in there tonight, maybe?"

Slowly, Viv nods.

"Okay." He smiles at her. "You have your panda? Good." He leads her down the hallway toward the second bedroom where his mother slept – and where, on her first night here, Viv joined her. He's still not sure whether she was awake when that happened; Vivian has never referred to it. Even if she slept through it, she seems to think there's something vaguely comforting about that bed, and he's certainly not going to mess with that.

"Wait." Vivian pauses before he can open the door and hands him her panda. He watches as she disappears into the junior bedroom, then returns holding something in her hand.

He recognizes it when she gets closer – it's the little silver frame she brought with them her first night here. If he were to examine it, he knows, he'd see a sun-faded picture of a younger Addison holding a smiling baby Viv in her arms.

Apparently satisfied, Viv follows him into the bedroom his mother was using. He glances around, hoping it's appropriate for a small child. His mother took all her medication with her to Liz's house, he knows this, but he scans the night table and bookshelves anyway, just to make sure.

Vivian stands beside the large bed, holding her panda in one hand and the framed photograph in the other. Derek studies her tired, serious little face. She seems hesitant.

"Are you sure you want to sleep in here?" he asks. "You can sleep in the other bedroom with us, if you want some company. Or you can have a girls' sleepover with Meredith and Zola, and I'll sleep in here."

"By yourself?" she asks huskily.

"I don't mind sleeping by myself," he assures her. In fact, as much as he loves his family, the prospect of a few hours of sleep without Zola's small but devastatingly accurate little feet kicking him doesn't sound too bad.

Vivian seems to be considering this, but she shakes her head.

"Okay. Then let's get you settled in here." He points to the night stand. "Why don't we put your picture there, so you can see it."

She lets him take the frame and set it up facing the bed. He peels back the comforter, grateful for the discreet if not particularly frugal housekeeping service the building recommended for the clean sheets. Vivian climbs onto the high bed and allows him to draw the covers over her. She looks very small surrounded by piles of soft bedding, her panda's pink-stitched mouth peeking over the top of the comforter.

Derek hesitates once he's tucked her in. He's reticent to leave her when she seems so fragile, but he's aware she has more of a desire for privacy than the average not-quite-six-year-old, and he doesn't want to insult her either.

"How about a story?" he asks.

Viv blinks. "What kind of story?"

Derek takes that as a yes. "A really boring one," he tells her, sitting on the side of the bed a dignified distance from his little houseguest. "That's the best kind when you want to fall asleep. My dad used to tell us about hardware fastenings when we couldn't fall asleep." He glances at her. "Ready?"

Slowly, she nods.

"Good." He thinks for a moment. He hasn't had to draw from this particular bag of tricks with his own daughter yet; Zola is small enough still that nothing puts her to sleep like parental cuddles and they have yet to work a charm. But he might as well practice. "Let's talk about fly fishing. So … the thing with overhead casting is that you need to get it down before you can build up any other casting variations. There are two separate parts: you have your back cast, and your forward cast. You need the energy load for the forward cast, and that's what the back cast is all about." He pauses, noting that Vivian's eyelashes have already fluttered shut, her small face resting on the furry side of her stuffed panda. By the time he gets to telling her how important it is to keep your wrist straight when you're casting, she's breathing deeply … fast asleep.

 _How do you like that_ , he thinks, it still works. As he has done more than once since he became a father, he sends silent gratitude into the universe.

 _Thanks, Dad._

…

"Still awake?"

Meredith looks up at her husband's voice; he's framed in the half-open doorway of their bedroom. Nodding, she gestures ruefully toward their sleeping daughter, who is – somehow, despite the laws of physics and her objectively tiny body – taking up most of their large bed. "How's Viv?"

"She went to sleep," Derek says, "so that's something."

"Nice work."

"Thanks." He sits down on the edge of the bed. "I'm not used to her tolerating me this much."

"You win over all the girls in the end." She takes his hand. "You should get some sleep, Derek. I have a feeling she'll be up during the night."

"Yeah." He massages a crick in his neck. "Poor kid."

"What happened last night, at their place?" Meredith asks quietly, searching his face.

"Nothing," Derek says, just a hair too quickly. "They were both exhausted," he adds when she doesn't respond. "Mark was trying to figure out what to do with Vivian tomorrow morning – she won't go with their nanny."

Meredith nods; Mark told her as much.

"So I offered to take her."

"I'm glad you did." Meredith reaches out to give his hand a squeeze. She has no doubt there's more to the story, but she has no interest in pushing her husband right now. He crouches low to kiss her and disappears into the attached bathroom to get ready for bed.

"What do you think, Zozo?" she murmurs, with little worry of waking her heavily sleeping daughter. "Should we move a little to make some room for Daddy?"

Zola seems three times as heavy when she's fast asleep, but she manages to move her enough that Derek will be able to squeeze in. He laughs when he sees the sliver of bed they've made for him and transfers Zola to his chest. She cuddles in, still asleep, and Derek gives an exaggerated exhale as he stretches his legs out. "Is there anything bigger than a king?" he asks, as Meredith curls into his side, stroking Zola's soft little arm with one hand.

"If there is, we should buy stock before the next one comes."

…

He wakes up before he realizes what woke him, and then he hears the second scream.

"Derek …"

"I've got it," he assures his half-asleep wife, and he transfers his sleeping daughter into her arms before hastily swinging his legs out of bed.

He left the door to the other bedroom open to make sure he'd hear Vivian if there were any issues – now, he thinks he should have trusted in the power of her lungs. She's still in bed, he's pretty sure, as he jogs across the open living room, because he doesn't see her.

So she's not sleepwalking. Which is something.

Momentum brings him quickly around the corner of the doorway, grabbing the door jamb to steady himself. It's dark – very dark – and he kicks himself for not thinking to plug in a nightlight. He flicks on the wall switch, illuminating a bed of rumpled covers and a small girl, sitting straight up with tangled hair wild around her pale face, crying nearly to the point of hysteria.

"Vivian … it's okay," he says automatically, slowing down as he crosses the room, not wanting to startle her.

"Hey." He sits down on the side of the bed, trying to get her attention; Viv's gaze is directed past him and she doesn't seem to have any idea he's there. Her sobs are heartbreaking, and punctuated with the occasional plea or shriek like the one that woke him from sleep.

"Viv … Vivian … ." His hand hovers inches from her, trying to decide whether to wake her. She screams when his fingers brush her arm, and he has his answer. "It's okay, you're okay," he chants, while she ignores him … if she even sees him at all.

And then, abruptly, she stops screaming. The vacant look in her eyes disappears, replaced with fear and confusion.

"Viv?" Derek reaches a hand out carefully. "It's okay. You just had a bad dream, but now everything's –"

She bursts into tears, different from the panicked ones before. Now she just sounds heartbroken. She doesn't protest this time when he frees her from the tangled sheets and lifts her into his arms.

"I need my dad," she sobs into his shoulder as he settles her against him, and he feels his chest tighten as if it's Zola and he's forced to be separated from her. This child he's only known for a matter of weeks, who is a part of the two people who used to be the closest in his world – and yet the responsibility he feels toward her is weighty.

"I know," he soothes her, rubbing her shaking back. "I know you do. You're going to see him really soon. In the meantime, you've got Zola's dad."

Her tears taper off into hitching breaths and then silence; he's hopeful she's cried herself to sleep, but when he eases her away, carefully, to check, he sees that her eyes are open – wide and fearful.

"I'm not tired," she says hoarsely.

It can't be accurate – her eyes are shadowed with dark smudges – but he understands what she means. Derek gets the sense that even if she doesn't remember her night terrors, she has some idea that frightening things happen when she goes to sleep.

"You don't have to go back to sleep yet," he assures her. He stands up with Viv in his arms, not really sure what he's planning until they get to the living room, where he gazes around hoping for inspiration. "How about … a movie?"

Vivian nods. Across the room, he sees Meredith standing in the open bedroom doorway. He gives her a wave he hopes is reassuring with the hand that isn't holding Vivian, gesturing toward the bedroom and encouraging her to go back to sleep. She looks uncertain, but when Vivian is quiet for long minutes, she disappears into the bedroom.

With a measure of relief – someone should sleep tonight, if possible, he settles Vivian on the couch and scans quickly for a movie on the iPad they used with Zola. Briefly cursing Disney for so many movies with a dead or missing mother, he settles on a harmless-seeming one about a gang of frogs. He's not sure Vivian is really watching, anyway. She props her head in her hand, tangled hair obscuring his view of her face. Carefully, he brushes some of it away.

"You want something to drink?" he asks, recalling that she sounded hoarser than usual.

She nods, but when he starts to get up he feels little fingers grasping his the shirt he slept in. "It's okay, Viv, I'll be right back."

He ends up carrying her into the kitchen with him, where he deems her too exhausted to sit on the counter without supervision, and sets her in a chair while he pours a sippy cup of apple juice, diluting it so it won't be too much for her stomach.

She takes a few sips, her eyes drooping, breath still hitching a little.

Back on the couch, he tucks a blanket around her and sits down by her side.

"You don't have to sleep," he reminds her when she casts an anxious look in his direction. "You can just watch the movie."

"Are you going to bed?" she asks huskily, around the thumb in her mouth.

"No, I'm staying right here." He leans back and focuses on the screen, where something animated and neutrally pleasant is happening to the small green main characters.

It's a surprisingly soothing film, with pleasant nature sounds – even the _ribbit, ribbit_ of the frog gang is almost peaceful. The first time he glances discreetly at Vivian, her eyes are fluttering. The second time, she's sleeping. The third time, he finds his own eyes starting to slide shut.

…

He wakes alone on the couch, his neck aching from the angle of his head, and it takes him a moment to remember the previous night. He brought Vivian to the couch to try to help her get back to sleep … and she fell asleep … and now she's not here.

Suddenly nervous, he sits straight up, then grips his aching neck, cursing silently.

"Are you okay?"

He spins at the sound of Viv's husky little voice, realizing she's been standing by the large windows on the far side of the living room, out of the line of sight from the couch.

He's relieved, and also rather touched by her question. "I'm fine, Viv. Just a little stiff from sleeping sitting up."

"Oh." She flexes her own small arms experimentally.

"Kids are a little better at that than adults are," he explains. "Have you been awake for a long time?"

She shrugs, and Derek realizes she may not have much of a concept of time, even if she's a few years older than his own daughter – who refers to everything from last Christmas to her birth to the picture she saw of Meredith graduating from medical school as _yesterday._

It's a few minutes after six, his watch tells him. And he needs coffee. A lot of coffee. Vivian trails him to the kitchen, watching him brew the pot.

"Are you hungry?" he asks her, not particularly surprised when she shakes her head.

He pours her a glass of milk anyway, and they sit across from each other at the kitchen table.

"Is Zola sleeping?" Viv asks.

Derek nods. "It's still pretty early. You think maybe you want to try to –"

"No."

"Okay."

He encourages her to play, but she seems reluctant to touch Zola's toys without her there.

"She likes sharing with you," Derek says.

Vivian shakes her head a definitive _no._ He sees her gaze fall on his blackberry. "Did my dad call?" she asks in a small voice.

"I think your dad is still sleeping," Derek tells her gently. "And he probably thinks you're still sleeping too."

Or hopes, anyway. Vivian chews her lower lip, looking pensive and not very happy. He tries to think of something to distract her.

"Meredith and Zola will be awake soon," he says. "You want to make some breakfast for them?"

Vivian looks interested. "Can we make pancakes?"

"Pancakes …" He makes his way to the cabinets to search their contents. His sister arranged for a hefty grocery delivery, but he doesn't see staples like flour or sugar. Things like pancake mix generally horrified his cost-conscious, never-work-shy mother, but he finds himself hoping there might be some in … but of course there isn't, which means they'll have to go out for ingredients.

"We're missing some things we need to make pancakes. But we can go out and get them, if you want."

Viv considers this for a minute, then nods.

She gets herself dressed without any input from him, and when she reappears in the hallway with her long messy hair in a crudely-constructed ponytail, she's wearing the flip flops she left here last time and a little grey shirt with two crossed tennis rackets on the front and a name he doesn't recognize.

"Do you play tennis?" he asks, gesturing to her shirt.

"At school sometimes," she says, "and at camp. And at our house with my mom and dad."

Derek smiles at this. He remembers some fierce tennis matches with Vivian's parents when the three of them were still regularly spending summer weekends in the Hamptons. He enjoyed tennis: it was one of the few sports where he reliably beat Addison; unsurprisingly, she counted tennis among her least favorite, and usually left in a moderate huff to let Derek and Mark play each other. They were well matched, back then at least.

Mark and Addison must have a summer house of their own – vaguely, he recalls Mark referring to something like that on his first visit to the townhouse. Thinking of the three of them playing tennis together in an island breeze, rather than dividing their time between the bleak townhouse and one chilly hospital after another, is depressing.

Pushing the image away, he holds out a hand to Vivian and leads her out of the apartment.

They walk side by side down the steamy sidewalk – the air is that particular one he remembers from very early August mornings in Manhattan. It's still hot and humid, but with a certain damp chill clinging to air nonetheless. He finds himself avoiding the closest bodega – the one where they first ran into Mark and Vivian what feels like a lifetime ago. Instead, they walk an extra few blocks to a small outpost that has no memories, unpleasant or otherwise, and leave with two sacks of groceries.

…

Vivian seems … unbothered by him, for lack of a better word, and he's confused by it, for lack of a better word. She's varied along a spectrum from annoyed to uninterested and touching on tolerant, but her recent indication that she prefers him over Meredith is confusing, to say the least.

Alone with Mark and Addison's solemn little girl, whose small pointed face looks slightly more rested than last night, but still sad, he falls back on the mornings he used to spend with his nieces and chats his way through setting up the ingredients for pancakes.

He's found a stool for Vivian so she can comfortably reach the counter, and she seems pleased with it, or as pleased as he's seen her, anyway. She asks if they can call Mark, but Derek, worried that Mark may be mid _making decisions_ , as he indicated yesterday, convinces her to hold off – eventually distracting her by letting her slice bananas.

She takes the job seriously, not speaking again until she's finished, and then she gestures at the pancake ingredients gathered around them.

"My mom puts orange juice in the pancake batter," Viv tells him. "Just a few drops. She says it adds _a little something._ "

Derek smiles at her. "You want to put some in this batch?"

Vivian shrugs. "We don't have to."

"There's orange juice in the fridge," Derek tells her. "And pancakes taste good like that."

"You had it before?" Viv asks doubtfully.

Derek nods. "Actually, my sister used to make pancakes that way. She started doing it when we were kids."

Viv cocks her head. "Amy did?"

"No. Amy doesn't cook," he says immediately, and can tell from Viv's little smile that this isn't news to her. "My older sister, Liz. You met her when we went to her house, in Connecticut."

Vivian is leaning on the counter, looking up at him like she knows there's more to the story. Derek smiles at her, hearing his own mother's poignant words about the sad little girl: _there may be a time when she'll want to find out anything she can about her mother from the people who knew her._

"That was Liz's special recipe for pancakes. And the first time I brought your mom home to stay at _my_ mom's house, it was Thanksgiving. My sisters were there too, and Liz made her special pancakes for breakfast the next day."

Retelling the story, it's painfully clear just how long ago those pancakes were consumed. It's as if he's describing someone else's life. Vivian is staring, transfixed, and he continues.

"Your mom said they were delicious, and Liz offered to give her the recipe. And your mom got the recipe from her, and thanked her, and then later when we were driving back to the city she told me that she had no idea how to cook anything, and the recipe might as well be written in Chinese – she said she didn't understand any of it except _orange juice._ "

Vivian is very quiet, and he's worried for a moment that he's upset her, but then a slight smile curves her lips. "My mom can cook a little," she says, a protective note in her voice.

"I bet she can now." Derek smiles at Viv. "Now she has a little girl to cook for. But that was a long time ago."

"Derek…?"

He nods.

"You were married to my mom," she says hesitantly.

Ah. He's been wondering if she'll bring this up. "I was. A long time ago."

"Yeah. My dad told me." Vivian pauses. "And my dad – was he married to Meredith?"

"No," Derek says quickly, keeping his face serious even though he's amused by her question, as if the four of them are pieces of a puzzle that moved around until they found the right fit. "No, your dad and Meredith weren't married to other people. I didn't meet Meredith until after I was already a doctor. Your mom and your dad and I, we all went to medical school together."

Vivian is quiet for a long few moments, and then asks a solemn question in her gravelly little voice: "Was she nice?"

"Your mom? She was very nice."

Vivian seems hungry for more, so he continues. "And she was very smart, and very pretty. Like you," he adds.

Vivian looks pensive. "And you knew my dad too?"

"Yes. We all went to school together, but I've known your dad for longer than that. For a very long time. Since I was about your age."

"Was he nice too?"

"Yes, he was nice too." Derek studies her face; she looks conflicted. "Your dad and I had a lot of fun together," he tells her. "And … he was a bit of a troublemaker."

Viv smiles a little at this. "That's what my mom says."

And Derek has a moment of sentimentality where younger versions of all three of them – Mark, Derek, and Addison, and then Mark and _DerekandAddison_ – jog through his memory with their hopeful, unlined faces, their enthusiasm for medicine and each other. Seeing his niece Carly on this visit reminded him what a formative period that first year was.

He's certain that leaving New York was absolutely the right thing to do, and there's no real question that there was no place in his life for Mark and Addison once he left.

But by severing ties … he lost his connection to that period of his life. They were the closest people to him for years, medical school, internship, residency, fellowship, building their careers together.

In Seattle he had a fresh start.

He hasn't maintained a connection with anyone else from medical school, not really. He saw Sam Bennett's new book mentioned in an article a couple of years back and sent him a note – only to hear back from Sam that he didn't live at that address anymore, but had been passed the note by Naomi, who was now his ex-wife.

The ashes of another failed marriage depressed him, and maybe depressed Sam too, because they didn't stay in touch after that.

And yet … he finds it surprisingly easy to summon good memories of their time together, the three of them, in medical school. Whether it's because time has muted any lingering hurt or anger or because the youthful, soft faces he calls up in his mind are so different from their present counterparts as to seem like completely different people, it's simple.

He has nothing but neutral, even poignant, affection for the twenty-two-year-old Addison he calls to mind – quite literally half a lifetime ago – with her high ponytail and round cheeks, her eagerness and academic determination.

He finds himself running a quick inventory for tidbits to share with Vivian, should she ask: Addison reciting formulae in the library while Mark teased her by tossing out random numbers and she retaliated by throwing paperclips at him. Sharing dollar slices at two in the morning while they tried to squeeze in one more hour of studying. The surprise snowstorm in March of their second year, when the three of them built a snowman outside their chemistry lab and named it after their perennially grumpy, and rather snowman-shaped, professor.

Playing in the snow – _god_ , they were young. Twenty-two, twenty-three … with a start, he realizes the Addison he first met in medical school is closer in age to Vivian now than she is to her current age.

He's deciding that the snowman story is the right one for Viv when she speaks, before he can.

"They were your friends? My mom and dad?"

Derek studies her little face for a moment. Her eyes look hopeful, a little shaded under her sand-colored brows. The resemblance he saw to Addison the previous nightseems to have faded; it's Mark's wistful expression he recognizes on her small face.

"Yes. They were my friends."

...

Meredith wakes to a small, but distinct commotion, which involves the warm little weight of her daughter's body leaving her own, as well as protest.

"I'm awake," she mumbles, forcing her eyes open to make it true. Derek is leaning over her, a tearful Zola in his arms.

"We were going to let you sleep," Derek says.

"I _don't_ want to let Mommy sleep," Zola whimpers.

"Mommy is awake," Meredith repeats, rising onto her elbows. "What time is it?"

Her eyes widen when he tells her. "How long have you been awake? Where's Viv?"

The answers are in the kitchen, where she pads as soon as she's made herself slightly more human. By this point, Zola and Vivian have been reunited and Zola seems to have forgotten her tears. They're sharing a dish of sliced bananas and strawberries.

"Yum." Meredith sits down next to Zola, who promptly pops a strawberry into her mother's mouth. She takes her time chewing it, using the distraction to study Vivian as discreetly as she can. She doesn't see much sign of her interrupted night, other than the messy hair that just seems normal at this point.

"Daddy and Vivi made pancakes!" Zola shouts happily. " _Look_ , Mama."

She looks, and sees a pancake in the shape of a Z. "Z for Zozo," Meredith reads. "Perfect. What about you, Viv?"

Mutely, Vivian indicates her own plate, with a syrup-dotted V. Meredith turns around to smile at Derek, who's washing up at the sink, and he smiles back.

"So my mother's appointment is this afternoon," he reminds Meredith when the girls have finished eating, washed up, and are playing together on the floor in the living room. "I'm going to go."

"Of course." Meredith glances through the open kitchen archway. "I was thinking I'd take the girls swimming again."

Derek nods. "My sisters want us all to have dinner afterwards."

"All?"

"My mother … my sisters … whichever children and husbands are around, I suppose. And wives," he adds at Meredith's feigned offense. "I can try to get out of it."

"No, you don't have to do that. It's good for Zola to spend time with them."

His smile makes it worth it. "Really?"

"Of course." She pauses. "Did you talk to Mark?"

"He called about an hour before we woke you up. He talked to Viv, but he didn't have a great sense of his timing for tonight."

"So Viv can come with us," Meredith says hesitantly. "But, Derek, you might want to …"

"… say something to my sisters," he fills in grimly. "Yeah. I was already planning on it."

…

Zola is elated when she learns they're going swimming, and spends an amusing half hour running through the apartment in various stages of undress as Meredith attempts to get her ready. Viv, who dressed herself without assistance within the first five minutes, luckily isn't too mature to give Zola her requested high five every time the younger girl passes her in the hallway.

Finally, Meredith captures her daughter with some help from Derek and manages to get her into her little pink one-piece bathing suit with the grinning octopus on her slightly protruding belly. She sticks it out extra far to admire the animal printed on her suit. "Look, Mama, _look._ " Once everyone has admired her octopus swimsuit, she has to twirl several times to make the little skirt swing.

And then she has to sit on the floor for several minutes regathering her balance.

Meredith has to hide laughter behind her hands and she can tell from Derek's sidelong glance he's doing the same. Zola looks like she needs circles of cartoon stars over her head to illustrate her dizziness.

Vivian kneels on the floor next to her younger friend waiting for her spell to be over. "Meredith?" Viv asks hesitantly, the first time she's addressed her directly during this visit. "Are you sure she's okay?"

"She's definitely okay." Meredith kneels down too, joining them, and strokes the top of Zola's head. "She's just a little dizzy. Have you ever made yourself dizzy from twirling around too much?"

"No," Viv says seriously. "I only ever twirl around just enough."

Meredith finds herself hiding a smile again – Vivian is such a solemn child in so many ways, and the image of her twirling _just the right amount_ feels fitting. She's touched, as always, by the older girls protective and caring stance toward Zola. Glancing toward Derek, she gestures to both little girls, hoping he'll realize what she means.

He does, and he moves in to supervise Zola's return to reality.

In the guise of finding towels, Meredith takes Vivian with her to the linen closet so she can talk to her alone.

"How's this one?" Meredith unfolds a large striped towel.

"Good," Vivian says neutrally. She seems to realize something is up and shifts slightly from one bare foot to the other. The buddy tape on her toes looks dingy; Meredith reminds herself to change the tape after they swim this afternoon.

"Viv … when you got here last night, and this morning, it seemed like maybe you were mad at me."

Vivian stares at the parquet floor, tracing a square with her big toe, and says nothing.

"It's totally fine if you are. But if you tell me why, maybe I can fix it."

"I'm not," she says in a very small voice.

"Okay." Meredith smiles at her. "I just wanted to make sure. Derek's not coming with us to the pool, because he needs to go … do something else," she says, before she can say _be in the hospital with his mother_ , which she knows is what Vivian is longing to do. "Are you okay going just with me and Zola?"

She nods.

"I'm glad to hear that. I know Zola likes swimming with you."

Vivian looks up at her. "I like swimming with her too."

They're halfway back to the living room with armloads of towels when Viv stops her, saying something indistinct.

"I didn't hear that, Viv, I'm sorry."

"I said, my dad told me you're not my friend."

 _Oh_. Meredith wondered if it was something like that, which makes sense considering Vivian's response to her when she ran into her with Amy in the lobby of the hospital. "Was that after … what happened here, the other day?" she asks carefully.

Vivian nods.

"So … he was upset when he said that." Meredith is trying to figure out how to phrase this next part without sounding like she's undermining Mark. Surely he said this about both her and Derek, not just her, so why – _oh._ "And then Derek came to your house," she prompts gently, "so you saw he's still your dad's friend."

 _Still._ Less than two weeks after what she knows to be more than six years – but yes, still.

Slowly, Vivian nods once more.

"Okay, well, let me see if I can help," Meredith says. "Your dad was upset with us – with Derek and me – when he said we weren't your friends. But he's not upset with us anymore. And actually, even though I wasn't at your house last night, I did see your dad. I saw him yesterday."

An expression Meredith can't identify passes across Viv's little face.

"I saw him yesterday," Meredith repeats, a little uncertainly. "And he wasn't mad at me anymore. And he knows I live here too, and that when you came here with Derek last night you would be with me too. He's not mad at us, Viv. He's not mad at anyone. And we are your friends, if you want us to be."

"I want you to be," Vivian mutters, addressing the floor.

"Good." Meredith smiles down at her. "Let's get to the pool and see if we have it all to ourselves today."

…

"Vivian is back with you?"

"Vivian is back with us." Derek glances over his shoulder as he walks with his mother down the fluorescent-lit hallway of Memorial-St. Cecilia's. Nancy hasn't arrived at the hospital yet, and he's not looking forward to warning her and the rest of his sisters that they're going to need to figure out how to censor themselves in front of Mark's child.

"I'm so glad," his mother says quietly. "She needs someone in her corner."

"She has Mark," Derek says, not sure why he's feeling defensive of his former friend, but feeling that way all the same.

"Of course she does, but the poor man is consumed with – he's not in any position to be dealing with her alone, that's all I meant."

Derek smiles weakly; he's just caught sight of Nancy's narrow shoulders and characteristic speedy walk and sure enough, a moment later she's reached their side.

"Mom, how are you feeling? You look pale." Nancy leans in to kiss her mother's cheek. "Where's Liz?"

"Nice to see you too, dear." Carolyn pats her daughter's arm. "And your sister is parking the car."

"Still? There's a parking garage attached to the – " Nancy stops talking at Derek's throat-slashing gesture behind his mother and he sees his sister press her lips together, somewhere between amused and annoyed. Of course his mother would be horrified by the prices of the hospital's own garage, and of course Lizzie would honor that and search for street parking.

He's left wondering if it's comforting or troubling that in many respects, not much has changed.

…

"Vivi, _watch_ me!" Zola shrieks at top volume across all four feet of chlorinated water separating them.

Which is probably why, although they didn't have the pool to themselves when they arrived, they do now.

Vivian watches Zola paddle merrily in her little circular floatie, expressing enough enthusiasm to delight her younger friend, and laughs when Zola splashes her – it's a welcome sound. Her long ponytail is water-dark, but at least she allowed Meredith to gather her hair back for her. She's trying to strategize whether Viv will let her condition it in the Alliance's post-pool showers, worried about the possibility of sending Vivian back to Mark with dreadlocks.

"Do a handstand, Vivi! Do it again! Now a flip!" Zola waves imperious little fingers from the center of her doughnut-shaped floatie, as Vivian obediently performs trick after trick.

"Okay, Zozo," Meredith says after a while. "Viv may want to take a rest."

"I don't," Vivian assures her, just as Zola screws her little face up angrily and shouts, "she _doesn't_ want to take a rest!"

Meredith tows the floatie toward her. "Hey." She rests her face close to Zola's soft, round cheek. "Zozo, can you use a nice, kind voice?"

"No," Zola scowls.

"Then maybe you are too tired to swim any more today."

"I'm _not tired!_ " Zola shrieks so loudly that Vivian covers her ears.

 _Welcome to little siblings, kid._ Meredith smiles ruefully at Viv as she tows a struggling, howling Zola toward the pool's stairs.

" _No_ , Mama," Zola howls as Meredith staggers up the pool stairs. "No, I don't _like_ you!"

Vivian is watching wide-eyed from the shallow end. They've been in the pool for a couple of hours at this point, with a few breaks, so Meredith's not surprised Zola's preparing to melt down. She's also not surprised that, once she's pried her daughter's wet wriggly little body from her floatie and wrapped her in a towel, Zola calms down almost instantly and buries her face in her mother's neck.

Meredith rubs her back through damp terry cloth.

"Viv?" she calls. The older girl is still treading water in the middle of the shallow end. "Come on out, honey, we need to clean up and get going."

"Can I stay in while you clean up Zola?"

"Not by yourself, no."

"But there's a lifeguard!" Viv's voice echoes in the indoor pool. "I swim by myself in my pool and we don't even _have_ a lifeguard."

"The pool rules here say no kids in the water without a grownup," Meredith says patiently, shifting Zola, who is growing heavier with sleepiness, to her other hip and pointing to the large list mounted on the pool room wall. "Come on, Viv, it's time to go."

She sees the little girl draw a deep breath, preparing to swim underwater, and is relieved – until she turns around and swims like a fish underwater to the deep end.

 _Damn it._

At something of a loss, Meredith looks back and forth between the lifeguard, who is watching the action in the pool closely from his high chair, and Vivian, and Zola, who is still sniffling a little in the aftermath of tears as she fists a hand in her mother's hair.

Carefully, she makes her way across the slippery pool floor toward the deep end.

"Viv. Come on, it's time to go." She keeps her voice level, not wanting to make things worse. Vivian hasn't exactly been defiant, other than swimming away from her, but there's something dangerous radiating off the little girl, and she has the distinct sense whatever's happening isn't over.

Her _feeling_ , whatever it was, seems unfortunately accurate when Vivian waits for Meredith to approach and then tears away from the side of the pool and swims into the middle, treading water and glaring.

"Vivian." Meredith props her free hand on her hip, with no real idea how to fix this. Is she going to need to get back in the pool? She could set Zola down on one of the benches lining the pool area, but her daughter isn't asleep yet and she hates the idea of letting go of her in such a slippery area. Plus, every time she tries to shift the heavy wet bundle in her arms, Zola clings and protests.

"Viv … come on." Meredith tries to sound reasonable. "Swim to the ladder and come out of the pool."

Vivian shakes her head.

"Vivian."

The lifeguard finally chimes in, leaning beefy arms on his thighs and speaking loudly into the water. "Come on, kid, you heard your mom. Out of the pool." He blows his whistle.

"She's _not my mom!"_ Viv shrieks this at a decibel higher than Meredith has ever heard from her. Her small face is twisted with rage and for just a moment Meredith is genuinely frightened. How the hell is she supposed to get her out of eight feet of water while she's juggling a half-asleep toddler?

Vivian's face is stormy, her body tense, as she treads water with furious, choppy movements, smack in the middle of the deep end, too far for Meredith to reach even if she had a free hand to extend into the pool.

 _Now what?_

* * *

 **To be continued - this week, I hope, and I can tell you that nothing makes me write and edit faster than feedback. I am so grateful for every review I've received, so I hope I don't sound too greedy here. It's just so rewarding to feel like people are reading and enjoying and I'm not just hurling chapters of this insanely long story into the void. All those of you who've taken the time to review, THANK you. Those of you who've been reading, but haven't had a chance to review yet, I would love to hear from you too! And for all of you, thank you one more time for your interest in and encouragement of this story. You are great, and I am looking forward to hearing what you think. So ... review, and make my night? xoxo**


	42. she lit a fire

_**A/N:**_ **Thank you so much for the feedback on the last chapter. I love writing this story, but at this point its length and complexity means the chapters take a long time. I appreciate every review and bit of support more than you know. There are parts of this very long chapter I've been waiting to share with you for quite a while now, and I hope you enjoy it.**

 _she lit a fire  
..._

 _Now what?_

Meredith's world has narrowed to the overly warm, chlorine-scented, glass-enclosed indoor pool. She's balanced on slick tiles, hefting a half-asleep Zola weighed down by a damp towel, at a loss for how to reason with the child in the pool.

"Viv," she tries again. "Please swim to the side now. Zola is waiting for you."

That last sentence is a bit manipulative, but she can make up for it later.

It doesn't work, anyway.

Vivian just continues to glare at her from the middle of the deep end, churning the water with angry motions of hands and feet.

Another endless moment and the decision is out of her hands; the burly lifeguard, apparently, has had enough. He swings down from his chair, pulls the big red and white life preserver from the wall, and tosses it into the pool. It lands mere inches from Vivian's churning hands; Meredith is equal parts impressed with his accuracy and guardedly relieved to see someone else taking over.

"Grab the ring!" he orders her, sternly enough that Viv does so after barely a moment's hesitation. The lifeguard tows her to his side of the pool in one swift movement, then squats down and lifts her out of the water. They're on the other side of the pool from Meredith and Zola, but she has a good view of Vivian shivering in her little yellow and white swimsuit while the lifeguard stands at his full height, scolding her.

"Did you hear me blow my whistle? What are you supposed to do when you hear that? You're a good swimmer, but you won't be welcome in any pools if you don't follow the rules."

Vivian is crying now – Meredith can see her little shoulders shaking from here, and she feels sorry for her despite the rush of adrenaline that left her legs trembling. Viv's lips look faintly blue the next time Meredith glances over, and she tries to catch the lifeguard's eye to signal that she's has had enough. He either gets the message or was done anyway, because he takes one of Vivian's little arms in his hand and escorts her around the pool to deliver her to Meredith like a very small convicted prisoner.

"I'm sorry," Meredith says quietly, grabbing a towel with one hand as they approach. She wraps the towel around a shaking Vivian, who's crying hard now. "Thank you for your help," she adds pointedly to the lifeguard, who's still casting a shadow across the towel-wrapped Viv. He turns and makes his way back to his chair without a word, leaving Meredith with the children. Zola is struggling in her arms now, confused and upset by Viv's tears, and Meredith gives the pool one last glance – empty, calm, and blue like nothing has disturbed the water – before she hustles both girls through the swinging door into the locker room.

Inside, the slatted floor provides thankful traction for their wet feet. The space is large, with dark wood lockers marching around the perimeter of the room and a divider of white stone sinks. At one edge are several large showers and a gated sauna.

Steam.

 _Heat._

Away from the immediate danger of a stubborn five-year-old alone in eight-foot water and a slick tile floor, Meredith is suddenly aware that while both little girls in her care are wrapped in towels, she's wearing only a wringing wet two-piece, and she's cold. Freezing cold.

She draws a deep breath, trying not to feel overwhelmed.

Trying not to remember Derek's concerns about her handling both Vivian and Zola on their swimming dates. She knows him well enough to know he wouldn't lord it over her if he knew what was happening – that he'd pitch in and help, that he'd support her – but a small part of her is still glad he's not witnessing it.

She files that away to deal with later and focuses on the children in her care.

"Okay. Viv, it's okay," she frees a hand from the wriggling, damp Zola to rest on Vivian's bowed head. She scrubs at her eyes and ignores Meredith.

"We're going to get warm," she continues, narrating like she has with Zola from the beginning, starting from when all she got were gummy smiles and coos in response. "It's okay."

Another deep breath that scatters more goosebumps along her bare limbs and, with a hand on Vivian's shoulder to keep her from bolting and the other arm tight around Zola, she makes her way to the showers. When the water is warm enough – not too hot for Zola, but hot enough to take away chill – she takes Viv's towel. "Step inside," she tells her. Vivian is shivering, still crying, and doesn't move.

The stall is large, a rectangle of wet teak with reassuringly sturdy-looking tactile mats on its floor.

"Come on, it's much warmer in there," Meredith urges.

When Viv still doesn't respond, she peels Zola away from her long enough to unwrap her towel and then carries her into the shower. The first blast of hot water on her chilled skin feels good – Zola squeaks with surprise and nuzzles closer, and Meredith leans out of the shower – dripping water everywhere, but she can worry about that later – to gesture to Viv.

Nothing.

But at least she's not running.

There's a wide bench in the shower, mercifully, and Meredith sets Zola on it, instructing her not to move, and then reaches out and lifts Vivian into the shower with them. She's not protesting, but not helping either, still crying hard. Her small body is trembling, from tears or cold or both, Meredith isn't sure.

"It's okay." Her frustration of moments earlier has already melted away, no obstacles to feeling sorry for her now. She crouches down, hot water coursing around her, and takes Vivian's shoulders in her hands. "Viv, it's okay. It's over." Her teeth are chattering; Meredith moves the little girl further under the water to try to warm her. Zola is sitting obediently on the bench where Meredith parked her, kicking her little toes, warm water sluicing around her. Her bad mood seems to have vanished with the pumping water. Steam gathers, relieving the chill for all of them.

Viv's shoulders are shaking with her sobs, tears and shower water mixed together on her miserable little face. Meredith moves her wet hair away from her face, trying to comfort her, and making no noticeable difference.

"Don't cry, Vivi," Zola offers brightly from her spot on the bench. She's drawn her pudgy little legs up criss-cross applesauce, apparently enjoying the thrumming water and warm steam. If anything, her sweet request seems to make Viv cry harder.

Finally, at a loss, Meredith just gathers a handful of shampoo from the canister on the wall and starts washing Vivian's hair.

Her ponytail holder is long gone, her long hair a tangled cape around her back that reeks of chlorine. "Close your eyes," she urges gently as she works up a crown of foam, using the shampoo to massage Viv's scalp, trying to telegraph calm. Vivian's tears are a little slower when she's finished, so she does it again, taking even longer this time, rubbing rhythmic circles on her head, her temples, her neck. Zola is quiet, sucking on a finger and watching. In this warm wet world it is very much only the three of them.

By the time Meredith fills her palm with conditioner, Viv is mostly quiet, her breath hitching occasionally in the aftermath of tears. It takes a while to work the conditioner through her long, tangled hair and rinse it out. When that task is finished, Meredith looks across the shower to see Zola's head lolling toward her little bare shoulder, so tired she's already started her nap in the warmth of the steamy water. Deciding to forego any of her own ablutions, she turns off the shower and wraps both girls in fluffy white towels from the stacks just outside the stall. Zola stays asleep as Meredith peels off her daughter's wet swimsuit and wraps her in another, drier towel, and then tucks her onto a cushioned chair in the middle of the changing room, covering her with a third towel.

There.

Cozy.

She turns back to Viv, who's shivering, her arms wrapped around herself, the oversized towel dragging behind her like a superhero's cape. Crouching in front of her, Meredith uses the towel to blot as much water from her long hair as she can, then pulls out the shorts and t-shirt Viv brought with her. Vivian makes no move to dry herself of change into her clothes, this child who has needed no one's help to dress or undress any time Meredith has been responsible for her.

This, above all else, solidifies her concern.

As efficiently as she can, she helps Viv – does all the work, more like it – out of her wet swimming things and into her dry clothes. Her skin is damp and cold to the touch and Meredith throws another towel over her when she's done. Kneeling in front of her, she cups Viv's exhausted, flushed face between her palms. "You're okay," she tells her firmly, hoping to make them both believe it. "You're okay."

Vivian's hair is even longer wet and conditioned, giving her the look of a mermaid, but Meredith couldn't do that much in the shower for some of the more embedded tangles. Viv pulls away from Meredith when her fingers hit a snarl – she's not surprised, not really, knowing that her hair is a potentially upsetting subject and she doesn't like it touched.

Taking a few steps away, Viv turns around, seemingly looking for something. Her bag, apparently. Meredith watches, curious, as Viv reaches into the little canvas bag, apparently looking for something.

And then wordlessly, she holds out a large tortoise-shell comb to Meredith.

Meredith reaches for the comb slowly, as if Viv's something wild she doesn't want to startle. Their fingers brush when the comb changes hands and Vivian turns tear-filled blue eyes up to meet her own.

Carefully, not wanting to break this silent spell, Meredith sits down on one of the wide, padded benches in the middle of the room, in clear view of Zola's sleeping spot. With the hand not holding the comb, she pats the bench in front of her.

She's holding her breath – waiting – and has almost given up when Vivian pads the rest of the way to her and climbs onto the bench. She's moving slowly, not with the monkeyish speed she's seen before, as if she's very tired. Or moving through water.

Meredith stays quiet, not wanting to startle her, until Viv turns around and settles into her seat, turning her back to Meredith so that the long cape of her wet blonde hair is inches from her hands.

It takes a long time to comb out Vivian's hair.

Long, quiet moments, broken only by the occasional soft sound from Viv as Meredith works a tooth through a particularly tough snarl, and Meredith's own whispered apologies. All the while, Zola sleeps peacefully in the padded chair a few feet from them, releasing infrequent soft snores.

"You have such pretty hair," Meredith tells Vivian quietly, separating a section she's just detangled from one she needs to do next. "I wanted long hair when I was your age, but my mother wouldn't let me. She said it was too much work, and she didn't want to do it, so I had to wait until I could take care of it myself."

"My mom helps me with my hair," Vivian says. They're the first words she's spoken since her outburst in the pool; her voice is even huskier than usual from her tears. "She likes to do it."

"I bet she does." Meredith smooths the locks of hair in her hand.

Vivian is silent for another round of detangling.

"Did you?" Viv asks without preamble, after Meredith has carefully separated a fresh handful of her wet hair.

"Did I what?"

"Grow your hair really long."

"I did, actually," Meredith says, "but not until I was a lot older, and living by myself. And then I cut it pretty quickly after that, because it was too much work."

She can't see Vivian's face, but she has a feeling from the set of her shoulders that she might be smiling.

And then, from their droop, that she's not.

She waits patiently and after a few moments Viv speaks.

"Meredith?"

"Hm?"

"I _was_ mad at you," Viv says quietly.

"When, in the pool?" She made that pretty clear to everyone, to the point Meredith is fairly certain they're not welcome at the Alliance anymore.

"No, like … before."

Meredith recalls their conversation in the apartment, after repeated snubs from Vivian, when she mentioned that Viv seemed like she might be angry. _I'm_ not, that's what Viv said at first, before a mumbling followup: _My dad told me you weren't my friend._

"Oh." Meredith carefully separates a few strands of hair. "You mean last night, and this morning – it wasn't just what your dad said that made you mad?"

Vivian shakes her head.

"You want to tell me what it was?"

Viv is quiet until Meredith has combed out another hank of hair.

Just when Meredith has started to think she's not going to answer, Vivian speaks, in a hurt little voice: "You saw my mom."

She saw her – _oh._

Meredith doesn't deny it; she doesn't say anything at all, waiting to see if Viv will go on.

"I know you saw her," Viv keeps going, her husky voice shaking a little, apparently expecting Meredith to protest. She doesn't turn around, Meredith can only see the back of her head as she speaks. "I heard what Amy said to you. I know you were looking for my dad and I _know_ my dad was with my mom. I know you didn't leave the hospital but we did. And this morning you said you saw my dad yesterday. _You_ got to see her and I didn't."

She can't argue with that logic. Once again she's struck with how much Vivian continues to figure out, to strategize, below the surface.

While the adults around her drop tidbits of information that fester.

"I did see your mom," Meredith says softly. "And I'm so sorry that makes you unhappy."

"It's not fair." Now Vivian swings around to look at Meredith. Her eyes are still ringed with red, her cheeks swollen. "I want to see her _so bad_ and I ask my dad every single day and you don't even _know_ her and you got to see her."

Carefully, Meredith reaches out to brush a long, damp strand of hair away from Vivian's face, relieved that she lets her. "That must feel really bad. I'm so sorry, Viv. I really am."

Vivian draws a shaking breath. "Did she talk to you?" she asks, turning her gaze up to Meredith. "Did she say she misses me?"

"Oh, Viv." Meredith is overcome for a moment, but forces herself to remember this isn't about her. "I know she misses you," she says carefully, "just like I know your dad misses you when he's not with you, but your mom is … not awake, sweetie. She didn't talk to me."

"Is she dead?"

Vivian's bluntness makes Meredith's stomach drop, just as she'd been wondering if _not awake_ was too much information. "No, Viv, she's not dead. I promise," she adds when Viv doesn't look convinced. The hairs on her arm stand up when she imagines the picture in Viv's head: Mark and Meredith seated around her mother's lifeless body, talking?

No wonder she was angry with Meredith.

"She's just … sleeping," Vivian repeats slowly.

Meredith notes that she doesn't seem surprised.

"Did you already know that?"

"Kind of," Viv says. "'Cause if she was awake she'd _make_ my dad let me see her. I got to see her before, at the other hospital, and at the clinic. But why is she sleeping so much?"

"She's … sleeping in a special way," Meredith says cautiously, "not in the regular way that we sleep at night. It's a special, hospital kind of sleep, so that the doctors can help her."

"Oh." Vivian plays with the edge of the white towel hanging between her wet hair and her shirt. "Was my baby brother still in there? When you saw her?"

"He was." Meredith smiles a little, remembering the twin monitors in the CCU, jagged red and blue lines of life. "The doctors are trying really hard to help both of them. And they're trying to help each other, too."

"But I miss her," Viv says softly.

"I know you do." Meredith strokes her hair slowly, relieved when she doesn't pull away. "I hope you get to see her really soon."

"I want to see her _now_." Vivian's eyes fill with tears again. "I can be really nice."

"I'm sure you will be."

"I wasn't, before. Sometimes I wasn't nice."

Meredith isn't sure what she's referring to, but takes a gamble anyway. "Kids aren't always nice to their moms," she says gently. "Zola wasn't too nice to me today when I made her get out of the pool, was she?"

Viv gives her a very slight, watery smile.

"But I know she was just tired and cranky. Your mom knows that too."

Vivian releases a soft sigh, one Meredith hope has some relief and not just grief. It's so much for a little girl to be carrying around.

"… it's okay to be scared," Meredith says tentatively.

"I'm not," Viv says, her hoarse voice shaking enough to betray her, and she turns around, indicating without words that Meredith should resume combing out her hair.

They're both silent for a while.

Meredith takes care of another tangle before she speaks again, quietly: "You know something, when I was a kid, I used to spend a lot of time away from my mom. And I missed her."

"Was she sick?" Vivian asks.

"Mostly, she was just working a lot … but one time she was sick."

Viv turns around to glance at her. "She was?"

Meredith nods, holding a handful of Vivian's long dirty-blonde hair. "I didn't know she was sick, then. I was about your age. We, uh, we moved somewhere new, and I didn't really know anyone. It was just the two of us." Meredith pauses.

 _Last chance to jump ship._

But she considers what Vivian witnessed, what Mark describes, what she's going through now, and thinks that kid gloves aren't really going to help her. Carefully, she rests her hands on the small shoulders in front of her. "My mom and I were alone in our apartment, and she started bleeding. And then she was having trouble standing up. I was the only one there with her, and I didn't understand what was happening."

Vivian is very still under her hands; Meredith can't see her face. "What did you do?"

"I called 911, and an ambulance came. They took my mom and me to the hospital. And when I got there, the doctors said I saved her life."

"Did you?"

"I think so."

"Did she have a baby in there?" Viv asks.

That part of the story doesn't need full explication, she's certain. "She did," Meredith says carefully, without further detail.

Viv is silent for a moment. "Was your mom okay?"

Meredith nods. "After a little while."

Vivian turns around to face Meredith again, drawing her legs up on the bench. "My mom still isn't okay."

"But not because of what happened that day," Meredith says gently, studying Vivian's face to see if she understands. "When she was bleeding and you called 911. You know that, right?"

Viv shrugs, looking away.

"Did you talk to your parents about this?"

"My dad doesn't like to talk about my mom," Viv says, something she's said before that Meredith's never quite been able to pin down.

"What about your mom? Did you talk to her – before, I mean?"

"It makes her sad."

"Viv – "

"Maybe 'cause it was my fault." Vivian is picking at the grubby, curling buddy tape on her little toes, not meeting her eyes.

"No." Meredith shakes her head vigorously. "No, Viv, you helped your mom that day. None of it was your fault."

…

 _No news is good news._

Derek is fairly certain whoever coined that phrase wasn't a doctor.

He can't seem to stop fiddling with his blackberry – he's not nervous exactly, certainly not because of his mother's appointment, which so far has been nothing but glowing prognosis and praise for her compliance with the recovery process.

"Derek." He feels the sharp poke of Nancy's elbow. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." He pockets his blackberry. What is he going to tell his fiercely logical, no-nonsense older sister – that he has a _feeling_?

No.

Liz, ever the oldest, frowns at both of them. She's mid-sentence with Dr. McGovern, asking more questions about follow-up and medication. His mother is planning on staying at their apartment tonight, he knows; she traveled back into the city in Liz's car with her things.

Nancy's sharp eyes suggest that those plans can be changed, and Derek hastens to re-engage in the conversation with the doctor to reassure his sisters that he's perfectly capable of hosting their recovering mother, shooting his sister a defensive look while he's at it.

"Derek," Nancy says sharply, and he realizes his mind has wandered again. "Brooke's just confirmed Mom won't need any further treatment. Did you want to say anything, or …"

"Nancy, come on." Liz shakes her head.

"Children," Carolyn says, looking less than amused. "I'm sure Dr. McGovern doesn't behave like this with her siblings."

"Actually, Mrs. Shepherd, I'm an only child." Dr. McGovern winks at her. "It was very quiet in my house growing up."

Derek speaks before Nancy can interject something about how that would have been her preference. "That's wonderful news about Mom. Thank you so much for taking such good care of her."

"We caught it early, with no small thanks to your mother," Dr. McGovern says, nodding toward Carolyn. "Patients who are this alert to changes in their own body can save their own lives."

Their mother looks rather pleased with herself.

"You still have to watch out for complications," Kathleen interjects.

"I know that, dear."

"It's just she has a very high pain tolerance," Kathleen explains to Dr. McGovern.

"She had five natural births," Liz chimes in.

"And Derek's head was huge."

That was Nancy, and he knows her well enough to know it's an olive branch.

"Not as huge as yours," he retorts, and her thin lips curve into something almost like a smile.

Brooke McGovern looks somewhat confused. As an only child, she's surely unfamiliar with Shepherd sibling peace offerings. And how similar they can sometimes look to the war.

"Let's not waste any more of the doctor's time," Carolyn suggests.

"It's fine." Dr. McGovern smiles at her. "Now, there are a few more things I'd like to – "

Derek's phone vibrates against the hand he's clenching in his pocket.

Nancy shoots him a dirty look.

"I'm sorry, I should take this."

With an apologetic smile, he ducks into the hall. His mother is fine, surrounded by her doctor-children and the doctor-only child who confirmed the success of her surgery.

The caller on the other end … maybe not so fine.

"Mark." He walks a few feet from the exam room

Nothing he'd normally say after that – _how are you? everything okay? what's up?_ – works here, so he just waits for Mark to speak.

"Hey. Uh, how's Viv?"

Mark sounds tense, distracted – not that Derek would expect anything else.

"She's okay. She's doing fine. She's with Meredith or I'd put her on."

"No, that's good. I'm at the hospital," he says, his voice quiet as if there are other people around. "I have a break. Maybe an hour. I was actually wondering if you …"

His voice trails off.

"Meredith took Viv and Zola swimming," Derek says. "I can try to reach them, see if I can get Viv and bring her over to you, but an hour might be tight."

"No, that's not – " Mark stops talking. "I do want to see Viv, but not right now. She should swim. It's, uh, it's you I was hoping could – meet up."

"Me?" Derek is confused.

"Yeah. I just – actually, forget it," Mark says quickly. "Sorry. Listen, thank you so much for taking Viv. I'll just talk to you later, okay?"

He remembers Mark's words the night he knocked on the door of their townhouse, their interrupted conversation: _I have to make decisions._

"Mark, wait." Derek shifts the phone. "I can come to the hospital."

"You don't need to."

He sounds embarrassed, but more than that – hopeful. Which convinces Derek that he does, indeed, need to.

"It's fine. I need some air anyway. I can head right over."

"Derek – "

"Where should I meet you?"

"Cafeteria," Mark says after a moment. "You don't have to," he adds.

He does.

And of course Mark is waiting for him in the cafeteria – Derek should have guessed. At this point, it's practically their official meeting spot.

After a quick good-bye to his family, promising to catch back up with them quickly – his mother squeezes his hand, asking him to tell Mark she's thinking of him, and even Nancy manages to purse her lips no more than usual – and a text updating Meredith, he makes the transition from mechanically-cooled hospital to steamy-humid street. He hails a cab even though it feels rather indulgent – Schuyler Hill is a long but nearly straight shot west from Memorial-St. Catherine's, and a handful of shorter street blocks. But time is tight; an hour can glide past like water, so he rides there in air-conditioned silence punctuated only by the driver's voice on what sounds like a passionate cell phone call.

It's easy to find Mark once he gets to the hospital. Schuy Hill's cafeteria is more chaotic than the pink, forcedly pleasant one at MSC. The tables vary in size to accommodate different groups, the chairs are faux wood with blue padding, and it smells a bit institutional. Then again, he's spent so much time in hospitals over the years.

Mark is leaning against a pale grey plaster wall scrolling through something on his phone. In less than two weeks, Derek's grown accustomed to this version of him – physically, anyway – thin enough that the corded veins stand out on his arms, grey from the top of his head to the somewhat-groomed hair on his face.

Derek sees him first, watches him tip his head back briefly, eyes closed. He looks exhausted.

Diplomatically, he waits for Mark to open his eyes and stand relatively straight again before he catches his attention.

"You came," Mark says when Derek is standing in front of him.

"Yeah." Derek sticks his free hand in his pocket, feeling a little unsure. "I came."

…

"Viv." Meredith waits for the little girl to look at her. After long moments of silence, Viv looks up from her broken toe. Her eyes are very pale in this light, her face still swollen from her tears.

"None of it is your fault, Vivian," she repeats, firmly enough that she hopes Viv will believe her.

She doesn't look convinced, though. Slowly, she worries her lower lip between her teeth. She's thinking about something.

"Tell me," Meredith suggests gently.

Viv fidgets with the towel again, moving it between her fingers and then picking at a loop of terry with one fingernail.

When she finally speaks, it's soft and she addresses it to the padded bench instead of Meredith's face. "If my mom went to work, when Faith died, I mean, … then she would've been in the hospital."

Meredith nods, not sure where she's going with this.

"But she didn't go to work. She stayed home 'cause she had to take care of me."

"You think if she'd been in the hospital already, then it wouldn't have happened?" Meredith pieces it together, and Vivian nods. "No, honey, that's not how it works. It's really, really sad when a baby stops growing the way your – the way Faith did – but there's nothing a doctor or a hospital can do to change that."

"But the ambulance took her to the hospital," Viv says.

"Right, because after it's … over, then doctors help to make sure the mom is okay. Viv," Meredith says, "there was nothing anyone could have done until after it happened. I'm a doctor. I know that's true."

Viv looks unconvinced. Her little jaw is set, stubborn.

Meredith thinks for a minute, feeling like there's a part of this puzzle she still doesn't understand.

"How come your mom stayed home with you that day?" she asks gently.

"'Cause my dad had to go to work." Vivian looks up at Meredith with sad eyes. "My mom didn't want him to go but he had to go."

"She wanted him to stay home?" Meredith asks, trying to follow.

Viv nods. "He was gonna stay home and take care of me 'cause there was no school, but he had to go to work."

Meredith knows what that's like. Two surgeons, married, balancing child care? That's hardly a surprise.

"Sometimes adults get cranky if their schedules change," Meredith says carefully. "I'm sure your mom was glad to stay home with you."

"She said she was … but she was too tired to play, really." Viv toys with the towel, averting her gaze again. "I wanted her to give me a piggyback ride, but she said no."

"Even if she had given you a piggyback ride, that wouldn't matter. It's not your fault, Viv. Whatever happened to the baby, inside your mom, it was going to happen no matter what. There's nothing you, or your dad, or your mom could have done differently."

Vivian looks past her now.

Meredith remembers something. "Viv … what about your nanny?"

She glances at Meredith, confused.

"How come your nanny didn't stay with you, that day?" Meredith clarifies.

"Oh. She had the day off," Viv says, not meeting her eye.

Meredith swallows. "Is that why you – why you don't like staying with her now?"

Vivian shrugs.

"Honey, it's not your fault, or your dad's fault, or your mom's fault, _or_ your nanny's fault. It's not anybody's fault."

Vivian still doesn't meet her eyes.

"Viv … do you hear me? What's happening in your family right now, it's really scary, and it's okay to be scared. But –"

"I'm _not_ scared," Viv interrupts her. "I told you."

"You're not?"

She shakes her head. "My dad said I have to be brave."

 _Of course he did._

Meredith isn't sure which one of them she feels sorrier for right now, Mark or Vivian. She's certainly not in any position to think she could do better.

She takes a deep breath, and waits for Viv to look at her. "You know something … at the hospital, when I was a kid … after the ambulance came and took my mom and me there, they told me I was brave. The doctors, and the paramedics – they told me I was brave, but I didn't feel brave."

Viv looks up. "How come?"

"Well, because I was scared. I was really scared, I was just pretending not to be. Because I knew that I needed to be not-scared so I could help my mom and help me. So I just … pushed it down. I pushed it down and down until I wasn't scared anymore."

Viv doesn't say anything. She's back to studying the bench like it holds answers, tracing a whorl with one little finger.

Finally she raises her eyes to meet Meredith's. "But it's good not to be scared," she says in her husky little voice. "Right?"

"Yeah, it was good. At first. But I guess I spent so long trying not to be scared and acting like I wasn't scared that after a while I kind of forgot how to be scared."

"Isn't that good?" Viv asks uncertainly.

"I thought it was. But now I think being scared is good sometimes. Better than pushing it down."

"When did you remember? How to be scared?" Viv's head is tilted, watching her curiously.

"Later. When I was older. And … I'm kind of still working on it," Meredith admits. "I wish I had figured it out sooner, though."

Vivian seems to be considering this. "But if it's good to be scared, then why did my dad tell me to be brave?"

Meredith nods. "Sometimes grownups say that because they're scared for _you_ to feel scared."

"Why?"

"Because being scared … is scary. That's why people try so hard not to be."

"Oh." Viv twists the corner of the white towel on her shoulders. "Do you get scared now?" she asks with interest.

Meredith nods.

"What are you scared of?"

"Different things," Meredith says carefully.

Viv meets her eyes with her pale blue ones; then her gaze flickers downward, coming to rest on the bare patch of stomach visible above Meredith's bathing suit bottoms. "Are you scared your baby is going to die?" she asks.

The air in the locker room gusts from warm … to too warm. Meredith remembers the first time Viv came to their apartment. _I hope he isn't dead,_ she said casually when she rested a hand on Meredith's pregnant belly.

She draws a deep breath.

"Yeah, sometimes I am," Meredith admits.

Viv looks utterly unsurprised, and not at all judgmental, about her confession. Her small mouth twitches with something like a smile. Like she expected nothing else, and doesn't mind at all.

Even Derek, who she knows is trying desperately hard not to increase or criticize her anxiety, doesn't quite have it down this well.

 _Maybe I've finally found the right confidant. A traumatized five-year-old. Great job, Mer._

"I hope he doesn't die," Vivian says suddenly, with surprising warmth in her voice, brushing chilly little fingers lightly against Meredith's belly. "Then he can be born, and be Zola's baby brother."

"Thanks, Viv." Letting impulse continue to rule, Meredith holds out her arms and with only a moment of pause, Viv leans into her. Carefully, she closes her arms around the little girl, holding her close, inhaling the sweet scent of the shampoo clinging to her long, smooth hair. "I hope so too."

…

Mark is quiet at first, leaning against the pale plaster wall to the cafeteria tune of clattering dishes and diners' voices, but several times his jaw twitches as if he'd like to say something.

Derek isn't sure how to help. Mark throws him a look, finally, that reminds him of the scheme they hatched as middle schoolers to ask out – what was her name? – Hattie Gorman. Mark swaggered up to her, Derek already having to take a step and a half to keep up after his best friend's growth spurt. And then they got there and Hattie of the shiny brown hair and freckles and patent-leather purse waited for them to speak and Mark just stood there. Not saying a word. Derek nudged him with his shoulder and Mark turned desperate eyes on him and all of a sudden Derek knew exactly what to say. So he did the talking, while Mark was quiet. And Hattie said yes – to Derek, but it was Mark she agreed to go out with. Derek was just the mouthpiece. It made sense: he was always more verbal, Mark more physical. He may have advocated Mark's date with Hattie Gorman but it was Mark who gave Kevin O'Shea a black eye when he insulted Derek's pitching.

Where did this memory come from? He wonders if this exposure to Mark, to his sisters, has reopened pathways he's gated off. The memories are long, but fast. They flit by like the home movies his family used to shoot. Just quick enough not to look real. Just quick enough to know they're a memory, and they'll be gone soon.

All he knows is that he needs to be the first one to talk.

"Viv misses you."

 _That's what you say? To a man plagued with guilt? Nice work, Shepherd._

Mark looks pensive, guilt darkening his eyes. "I miss her," he says, his voice thick. "I miss both of them."

Derek swallows, then leans back against the wall. "Viv asked me about Addison this morning."

"Yeah?" Mark glances at him. "What did she ask?"

"About our being married, I mean."

"Oh. Yeah, I told her you two used to be married. I left out the end, though," he says ruefully.

"You might want to save that part," Derek says mildly; he's still gauging Mark's mood, but distracting him with a somewhat light tone seems to be getting him to talk, at least.

"I wasn't going to say anything – you know, she already has so much going on, it's one more confusing thing, but she kind of figured it out from the pictures anyway."

Derek isn't surprised. He's noticed that Viv is often quiet, but more often than not seems to be studying her environment – maybe calculating, maybe strategizing.

"What kind of pictures did you show my kid, anyway?" Mark sounds like he's trying to make a joke; Derek throws him a bone by playing along.

"Oh, you know your wife," he says lightly.

"She was your wife then."

"Yeah." Derek glances down at the blue-flecked linoleum floor. "She was."

For a moment, they're both silent.

"To think she could have prevented all of this by just sitting on her own chair at the beach house," Derek adds, letting himself tease Mark, still feeling responsible for keeping their conversation light even by force.

"Why would she ever do that?" Mark looks amused.

Derek smiles slightly at this bit of shared reference. In his hazy recollection, young Addison – happy Addison – was expansively affectionate.

"You know something, Viv's five," Mark says, "I actually didn't realize she had any context for … lap-sitting … other than kids or whatever."

"So you're saying Addison _does_ sit on her own chairs these days?" Derek asks, innocently. For a moment he could kick himself – _Addison doesn't sit anywhere, not anymore_ – but then Mark actually cracks a smile.

Derek finds himself as surprised as the first time he saw Vivian do the same thing; their expressions look startling alike too.

"Point taken," Mark says after a moment.

…

Vivian is resting against her so quietly that Meredith wonders if she's fallen asleep, but then she hears the indrawn breath that precedes speaking.

"Meredith?" Viv asks softly, her voice muffled by the towel.

"Hm?" Meredith has been stroking her long hair, still damp but uncharacteristically silky and free from tangles.

"Do you know how to braid hair?"

There's a lump in her throat; she has to swallow around it. "Kind of," she confesses.

Vivian moves away from Meredith, long hair slipping over her shoulders. There are creases in her small face from being pressed so closely against the towel. "It's okay," she says huskily, her tone reassuring. "Just try your best."

…

"Viv was okay last night? Really?"

Derek isn't sure how much is reassurance and how much is a lie. "She woke up during the night, with a – bad dream, I guess, but she went back to sleep."

Mark's face is a mask of guilt, and he regrets his words already. Every conversation is part minefield; it's exhausting.

"She made pancakes with me, in the morning," he says, hoping the more pleasant topic will distract Mark. "And she let Zola drape her in boas and tiaras to play store for hours – and no, I don't know why you need formalwear to run a store."

There's a pause during which, he assumes, Mark is picturing the scene. "She needs to be a kid," Mark says quietly after a moment. "She doesn't get that from – I haven't been able to – "

"You've done everything you can," Derek interjects.

Mark utters a noisy exhale that clearly means, _that's what you think._ Before Derek can say anything else, Mark closes his eyes. "Thank you for everything you've done. Really," he says when he opens them.

"Don't keep thanking me."

"Yeah. Okay." Mark looks down at his hands. "I, uh, I screwed up … that day at your place. I shouldn't have done that."

"You were upset," Derek says carefully. "It was a misunderstanding. It's okay."

"It's not. I just – " Mark stops talking. "I don't want her to know."

"To know …?" Derek pauses, takes in Mark's expression. "Oh."

"She'll figure it out eventually. She's smart."

This Derek knows. Smart, and strategic, sleuthing her way through the mystery of her confusing life.

"I've thought about it before, you know?" Mark continues. "If she doesn't hate me for letting her mother die, I guess she can wait a few years and hate me for being a cheating bastard."

"Mark." Derek shakes his head. "She's not going to hate you for – it has nothing to do with her."

"Other than her conception."

"Other than her conception," Derek admits, "without which … she couldn't ask you any questions in the first place."

It's circular, he knows. But so is life, and Mark doesn't push it. He's silent for long moments before he turns to Derek again.

"Derek – why are you here?"

"You called me," he says, confused. "You asked me to come."

"No, I mean, here – _here_ ," he describes a circle with one of his oversized hands. Derek gets it: why is he back in their lives?

"My mother wanted Addison to operate."

Mark's expression suggests that's ancient history; he can't disagree.

"We screwed you over. Addison said you wouldn't let her get a word in about me when she flew out to Seattle."

"That was a long time ago," Derek reminds him. "And I saw you at Clara's wedding."

"Yeah." Mark stares at a framed photograph on the opposite wall. "That was some wedding."

"At least you made it out of there without having to bail Addison out of jail."

Mark shakes his head, expelling a rueful breath. "She was so mad at me that night. After we left the wedding. She thinks she's immortal."

The second two syllables of _immortal_ ring through the hallway and there's an awkward silence.

"Viv was pretty young at the wedding," Derek says, it's the first mindless chatter that pops to mind.

"Yeah – I asked her about it once but she said she doesn't remember. She usually has a pretty good memory."

"I guess that's good," Derek says mildly, "only to remember sober Aunt Amy."

An expression he can't identify flickers across Mark's face at the phrase _sober Aunt Amy_. Maybe it's the designation of _aunt_ , which Derek's sisters have withdrawn, it seems, from Addison's offspring.

"So?"

"So what?"

"So we screwed you over, Derek. I'm an asshole and she's – " he says something Derek assumes he wouldn't want either of their wives to overhear. "So why are you babysitting our kid and … talking me down from the ledge? Why are you here?"

"I don't know why I'm here. All I know … is that I'm here."

"That's the best you can do?"

"I guess it is."

"Okay, then." Mark leans back against the wall and, after a moment, Derek does the same. They stand there for a while, not moving, not speaking – together.

…

"I'm not sure how they turned out," Meredith says doubtfully, looking at her handiwork. Viv is sitting in front of her on the bench, legs crossed. She seemed to want to be face to face; as a result, Meredith had to comb great swaths of long, slippery hair over her shoulders to gather pieces to weave together.

Viv's small hands skate over the two long braids that hang down her shoulders. They're loose, not like the braids she knows Amy and Addison have made for Viv, starting at her scalp, or the even more intricate ones they weave into Zola's hair.

Carefully, Viv touches the end of one braid, then the other. "They feel okay to me," she says.

"Good." Meredith smiles at her.

"Meredith?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm tired," Viv confesses.

Lightly, Meredith touches one of her long braids. "I have an idea," she says.

…

Words, silence.

More words, more silence.

Tens of minutes into the hour Mark said he had and Derek still isn't sure what he wanted to talk about in the first place.

"Mark," he begins carefully.

"I know," Mark interrupts, grimacing.

"Look, if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine."

"I don't."

"Okay." Derek glances briefly at him. Mark's thin arms are folded like he's trying to hold in a secret.

"I do want to talk about it … _and_ I don't," Mark corrects. For a moment he just breathes, while the sounds of clattering dishes and chattering diners fill the silence. "Or I need to. I don't know."

"You said you had a meeting," Derek tries, but Mark starts speaking at the same time and neither man hears the other.

"What?" Mark asks.

"What did you say?" Derek asks at the same time, then shakes his head. "You first," he tells Mark.

"I said, I had a meeting," Mark says numbly. "This morning. With, uh, with everyone."

 _Everyone_.

"Her doctors," Derek suggests carefully.

"Her doctors from MSC, the ones who stabilized her here, the head of the ED, director of CCU, the clinic chief from Lucerne – he flew in – about a dozen other specialists, and the ethics team."

"The ethics team," Derek repeats.

 _I have to make decisions._

"And lawyers."

In Derek's experience, the plural of _lawyer_ is never a good thing.

"She has an advance directive. Addison does. I didn't know, not until yesterday."

Derek swallows, assuming it's what Mark feared, that the power he briefly held to direct her treatment has vanished once again. "And?" he prompts.

"And she gave me medical decision-making. A hundred percent." A muscle in Mark's jaw twitches. "What I say goes."

Derek blinks, surprised and trying not to show it, processing. "She trusts you," he says finally.

"Yeah?" Mark shakes his head, his expression pained. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"What are your options?" Derek asks quietly. It's the most directly they've spoken and he's not sure if he's pushing it, but didn't Mark want to speak with him?

"So … they can do it." Mark is studying the blue-flecked linoleum floor, his voice low but audible. "Deliver him. That's the word they were using, _deliver._ "

Derek noticed the word. He also noticed another word: _him._ But he focuses on _deliver_ , as Mark seems to want, understanding the euphemism. At sixteen, nearly seventeen, weeks, their unborn son is more than a month from the youngest micropreemies ever to survive – and more like two months from the ones who survive in any meaningful way.

 _Deliver_ suggests survival, perhaps meant to temper the pain of terminating a wanted pregnancy.

"It's not a delivery," Mark adds, unnecessarily. "It's a goddamn funeral. But the hospital signed off. It's done. I can … authorize the termination." His words start to speed up, blurring together. "I can let them terminate and start treatment so maybe she can have a chance, or I can let them terminate and _not_ treat because – "

He stops talking.

"Mark?"

"There are … respiratory concerns," he says. "They ran some more tests overnight. If we leave the baby in, and her body maintains the pregnancy, they might not be able to, uh, to keep sustaining life."

 _Keep sustaining life._ It's as indirect as you can get. To say Mark is having to distance himself is a terribly sad understatement.

He looks at Mark. It's what he's wanted all along, isn't it? Ending the pregnancy he never agreed to so his wife's disease can be treated immediately. It is, he knows, her best chance of survival.

And now it seems that even without treatment for her cancer, her survival – or whatever shadow of it the machines give her – is still threatened by her continued pregnancy.

"So they authorized the, uh, the termination," Derek says carefully, making sure he understands.

He nods. "They gave me a piece of paper, a form. One signature … and that's it."

Mark's face is grey, prominent lines around his mouth of the typeAddison used to euphemistically call _smile wrinkles_ , but these look as though they were carved by worry instead.

A euphemism like _delivery_ , a word we choose when the accurate one reminds us of something we don't want to think about. Something that frightens us.

 _Smile wrinkles._ The result of aging. He considers this for a moment: was Addison afraid to grow old? Was that why she chose that term?

There's a moment of quiet contemplation when Derek tries to remember being young enough to think growing old was something to fear instead of hope.

"Did you sign?" Derek asks.

Mark doesn't respond.

Long moments pass as the yellow bars of fluorescent light buzz from the ceiling. Metal strikes plastic and then metal again as trays are bussed. No words. Just noisy silence. The kind that sounds like nothing.

Then child's shout echoes across the cafeteria; suddenly Mark seems startled awake. He turns one thin wrist up toward his face.

"It's late, I didn't realize. I have to go," he says abruptly, spinning on one heel.

"Mark, wait – "

But he's already gone.

 _To be continued. Those of you who have enjoyed Meredith and Viv's interactions, I'm right there with you. Derek and Mark's (very) slow reconnection? That too. This chapter may not have moved forward much in time, but time isn't the only thing that moves. Thank you again for reading and for your insightful, generous, and lovely comments. I love to write, but I update this story for you, so I'm not ashamed to say - I hope you'll review and let me know what you think. And if you want to review but aren't sure what to say, do me a solid and tell me what term you use for the doughnut-shaped ring lifeguards (and boaters and whatnot) use to save lives. There are like a hundred different ones and I continue to obsess over which one would be native for Meredith. And tell me roughly where you're from, because that helps too. I'll start: I'm from the east coast of the U.S. and I grew up calling it a life preserver. You?_


	43. heartbeats

**A/N: Let me start by saying I am so sorry it took so long to update this story, and all my stories, and my existence. Things have been super crazy for me in all kinds of exciting but busy-making ways, and I think this is the longest I've gone without posting since I came back to live in April '17. So let me start off with a doozy, and see if you forgive me for my long absence when I give you a long, long chapter filled with a lot off stuff (for lack of a better word). This story is never far from my mind and always in my heart, and I promise you I would never leave it unfinished. (For those of you reading this who are waiting on other stories, I promise you those are coming too.) To everyone who reviewed and messaged and asked about this story and about me, I appreciate it so much and you are why this site is great. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I hope you'll tell me what you think.**

* * *

 _heartbeats  
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* * *

"Mark, wait."

He catches up to the other man halfway down the hall.

"Where are you going?" Derek asks the back of his grey head.

Silence.

He doesn't turn around.

"Mark…"

It's a gaggle of passing scrubs that does it, orthopedic clogs clunking their way along the linoleum. Mark pulls aside to let them pass and then leans back against the wall, tipping his chin toward the ceiling. It's an expression Derek remembers from the time Mark broke his arm at Boy Scout camp, falling off the top of the shed they weren't supposed to climb. And the time Mark cut himself in shop class – Derek can't remember what he was doing, but he assumes it was something he wasn't supposed to. And another time too: Derek's father's funeral.

That wasn't supposed to happen either.

The point is, Mark's never been a crier.

Tactfully, Derek busies himself checking his blackberry.

His unanswered question from earlier hangs in the air: _Did you sign?_

He doesn't ask again whether Mark signed the papers that would allow the termination of Addison's pregnancy, just waits in the imitation of silence they have here in the hospital hallway – loud and bustling, but not near them. They're in a quiet bubble, waiting.

The air is thick with disinfectant, assorted perfumes and sweat as people pass them by.

"I couldn't do it," Mark says finally. He's looking at his hands now. "Not yet, anyway. The authorization lasts for twelve hours," he explains, "and that's it. But I couldn't sign his death sentence. Not when she's – lying there trying to keep him alive."

Derek swallows hard.

"And maybe…" Mark's voice trails off. "It's, uh, it's something Meredith said. She was here, you know, she saw her."

He stops talking again, maybe wondering if Derek knew that, or if it would bother him.

Derek just nods encouragingly.

"Meredith said … maybe they're keeping each other alive."

The words bring a brief ache to Derek's chest. He can picture Meredith saying it, and along with the image of her in his mind is the tug of missing her closeness.

Mark seems like he's waiting for an answer now.

"Maybe they are," Derek suggests tentatively.

"Maybe," Mark says. "Or maybe they're killing each other."

The silence is loud now, like pounding footsteps and heartbeats all at once.

"I should get back," Mark says finally, his gaze skating toward the elevators. The twist of his shoulders reminds Derek how thin he's gotten, sharp cuts of bone.

"Have you eaten anything?" he asks.

"You sound like your mother," Mark says.

It's as informative answer as Derek expected: no, he hasn't.

"It's almost five … thirty," Derek corrects himself.

Mark doesn't respond.

Derek exhales. "You're going to get through this. Whatever happens, you'll get through this. Both of you."

"Yeah?" Mark glances at him. "I'm not so sure."

"I lost a parent," Derek says quietly, "and it was hard, for my mother, for the five of us, but we survived it – more than survived – we've made good lives and Vivian can do that too. You can help her do that."

"You had a great mom, though."

"And Vivian has a great dad – _Mark_ ," Derek says firmly when the other man starts to protest.

"Had, maybe," Mark amends. "When things were easy … maybe. I'm a lousy father when the chips are down. Don't pretend you haven't noticed. One of them hates me, and the other one – I had a pen in my hand, I was this close – " He stops talking, shaking hands gripping his own arms.

"Viv doesn't hate you," Derek says quietly. "She loves you, and she misses you. She needs you." He pauses, wondering if it will induce more guilt. "She wants to see you."

"I want to see her too." Mark looks grim. "I told the oncologist I'd be back for this … all hands meeting at nine."

"All hands meeting," Derek repeats. "That's the one where – "

Mark nods.

The twelve-hour strike, when his legal authorization expires. Derek checks his watch again. The authorization period almost half over.

"Come have dinner with us," Derek says abruptly.

Mark looks confused. "Us?"

"Us. My mother, my sisters, my daughter … your daughter … your typical less-than-civilized Shepherd family dinner."

Mark shakes his head. "I should stay here."

"You need to eat," Derek says, keeping his tone brisk, knowing heavy concern is only likely to make Mark feel worse. "You'll be back in plenty of time."

"Yeah, okay." Mark looks toward the elevators again. "Let me go see – I'll meet you, maybe."

Derek nods, figuring it's the best he'll get.

"It's too much trouble," Mark says gruffly, without preamble, "your keeping Viv all this time."

It's Mark expressing gratitude; he knows that. "Not at all. Zola loves her – and Vivian keeps her occupied, too – and Viv is actually warming up to me, believe it or not."

"Yeah?" Mark studies him for a moment. "I'm not surprised."

"No?"

"No. It usually takes you a while with the ladies. The discerning ones, anyway."

Derek mock-glares and for a moment, it's like they were never _not_ friends.

…

The buzzing phone startles her, loud and unexpected in the humid quiet of the locker room. She scrambles for the device before it can wake the two little girls sleeping curled like two kittens on one soft chair.

"Derek," she whispers.

"Hey." His voice is a little distorted; from the sounds she can hear down the phone line he must be outside, maybe on the sidewalk. "How are the girls?" he asks.

It's a question that really needs a longer answer.

"They're okay," she says. She'll give him the details later.

There's a pause on the other end of the phone; Derek knows her too well and can tell there's more to the story, she realizes, but he lets it go.

"I invited Mark to dinner," he says, "and he's going to try to make it, but I think we probably shouldn't say anything to Viv in case he can't."

She agrees, but she's stuck on one word.

"Dinner?" _Dinner._ "Oh, god." She brushes her hair out of her face, then flips her phone to check the time. _Shit._ "Derek, I'm so sorry."

"For what?" he asks. "Where are you, anyway?" he adds when she doesn't respond.

"I'm … at the Alliance."

"Still? The kids haven't shriveled up by now?"

"Not exactly." Meredith pauses. "Zola had a minor meltdown. And then … Vivian had a major one."

"Ah." Derek pauses. "Is she okay?"

No need to ask which _she_. Zola's minor meltdowns, part of her toddler charm, are never a real concern.

"Yeah. I think so." Meredith glances at the chair where Viv is curled up with Zola, long braids hanging over her shoulders. "I didn't realize how late it was, and I know you mentioned dinner before. But, uh, I smell like chlorine."

"Sounds delicious."

"And I'm wearing ratty clothes, and – "

"It's dinner with my family, not the queen. But you don't have to come, if you don't want to. Why don't you take the girls back to the apartment?"

She's considering whether to accept, gratefully, when Derek starts talking again. "Wait. I told Mark where we'd be, and he's hoping to join us." He's silent for a moment. "It's okay, I can text him, get him to swing by the apartment instead – "

"No, we'll come," Meredith interrupts. "The girls should eat, and your family …"

Her voice trails off, remembering Vivian's interactions with them at Liz's house.

"I warned them," Derek says quickly. "They know we're watching Viv and they'll … watch themselves. And they'll watch Nancy," he adds, making Meredith smile ruefully on the other end of the phone.

He sounds so genuinely glad they're coming that she can't even feel too disappointed. She can make it work.

She just needs to wake two sleeping children.

What could go wrong?

But the nap seems to have worked its magic: Zola is transformed back into her sunny self. She's tickled to find Vivian dozing on her, and once she's wriggled free she plants several wet kisses on Meredith's cheeks when she's climbed her way onto her mother's hip.

"I took a _nap_ ," Zola informs her breathlessly, as if Meredith has just flown in and requires an update.

"You sure did, Zozo." She kisses the top of her head. "You feeling better now?"

Zola nods, tugging with interest at the fluffy towel that surrounds her. "Mommy! _Mommy!_ " The towel has gapped in her two pudgy hands and now Zola's eyes are wide with excitement at her discovery. "I'm _naked_!"

Meredith sees Vivian cover her mouth with her little hand, apparently awake now too, though she hasn't moved from her chair, and can tell she's smiling underneath. Sensing she might want a little space, Meredith gives her a smile but then turns back to her daughter, who is still beaming at her lack of clothing.

"Naked," Zola repeats dreamily.

"I can fix that." Meredith reaches into the bag for Zola's clothes, but not quickly enough to intervene as her daughter darts away for a gleeful nude circuit around the locker room. Meredith doesn't have the heart to stop her, not when her daughter is in such a great mood … and not when Mark's daughter giggles at the sight of her.

Not until she's dressed a wriggling, chatty Zola, and packed all their things does Meredith realize that Vivian's brief interlude of sleep was undisturbed, by dreams or otherwise.

…

The humidity is almost audible. A buzz, heavy wet breaths. It should be cooler now, only a couple of hours from sunset, but it's hotter, the air uncomfortably warm around him. Derek remembers Augusts past in New York step by step as he makes his way to the restaurant his sister chose. He remembers the double-edged sword of it all: walk faster and you can get out of the heat sooner, but you'll be sweatier; slow down and you might sweat less, but you'll spend longer in the humid outdoor air.

He's walking alone, Meredith bringing the girls to meet the rest of them at the restaurant, and it could be any year of his life in New York, heading for a hastily planned family dinner with usual caveats: the restaurant has to be in the precise Venn diagram of the places various sisters refuse to go, it has to meet his mother's strict specifications of frugality, not to mention it can't be too –

"Fancy," his mother shakes her head after she kisses Derek hello. "I told you children not to fuss."

"We didn't," Kathleen assures her, throwing Derek a look he recognizes. "It's fine, Mom. We thought you'd like it."

 _We._ Derek wonders if he's part of that Shepherd first-person plural these days.

His mother, for her part, doesn't look convinced.

Derek glances around: his sisters have chosen a small Italian restaurant a couple of steps down from the sidewalk. The air conditioning is fairly strong, to his relief, but there are fans placed strategically around the room anyway, as if the restaurant is still clinging to the days before central air. It's casual, with other children present, tables of families; there's a wall of exposed brick and framed black and white pictures from the middle of the last century.

As long as his mother avoids studying the prices too long, and then lecturing them on the price of food when she was young, it seems doable.

He's about to settle into a chair when Liz takes him aside. "How's Mark?" she asks quietly.

Derek pauses, wondering what she knows. "I guessed," she says, her tone neutral. "You _were_ with him," she confirms.

Derek nods.

"Is there any – "

"No change," Derek says quickly. He tells his sister that Mark might stop by, reminding her that Vivian doesn't know and not to tell her.

And then he takes his place as the only Shepherd son, the one he left behind years ago. Sisters and brothers-in-law and the nieces and nephews who are local – Chloe and Caitlin have both arrived now, Christopher apparently only blocks behind them – crowd around the table. Over the clink of ice in water glasses, his older sisters chatter in one voice.

Amy isn't here. He's not surprised, didn't really expect her. But when his youngest nieces arrive without their mother, he feels a flicker of foreboding.

"Where's your mom?" Liz asks the question for him as she bustles around moving chairs and greeting both twins.

"Working," Sarah says.

He hears Kathleen's under-her-breath comment that it's better Nancy and Amy both skipped the dinner than both of them showing up. Derek busies himself with a piece of bread, not wanting anything on his face to give away his impression that he doesn't think Nancy and Amy's simultaneous absence is coincidental at all.

"How did you get here?" Carolyn is asking the twins, her tone affectionate and suspicious in equal measures.

"The subway, Grammy." Joy kisses her grandmother's cheek.

"Alone?"

"No, together," Sarah says.

"But without an adult." Carolyn shakes her head.

"City kids." Liz smiles at the girls. "The good thing is, you won't want to rush to get driver's licenses when you turn sixteen."

Joy and Sarah exchange a look suggesting it's not such an even trade, and then Liz, Kathleen, and several of his nieces begin a passionate discussion about the appropriate age to learn to drive.

He tunes it out – partly habit, partly distraction about Nancy and Amy's simultaneous absence, and a hefty dose of concern for his wife. He wants to see her, and Zola – so much that perhaps it should embarrass him, considering it hasn't actually been that long since they parted ways.

But it _feels_ long, and he didn't miss the undertone in Meredith's voice: her swim outing was clearly not stress-free.

He's relieved when the door chimes announce Meredith's arrival. She's holding Zola's hand, her other hand on Viv's shoulder, a large bag slung across her back. Her hair is bordering on wild the way it does when it air-dries and despite whatever must have happened, she looks calm and beautiful. He can't not smile, seeing her.

"Daddy!"

His daughter's delighted squeal is followed by a rebellious trek across the restaurant, tearing away despite Meredith's warning and darting between two servers. Derek holds his breath; nothing spills, and he squats to scoop up his daughter. "You need to be careful here, Zozo," he says, attempting a firm tone as Meredith apologizes to the two startled waiters. But his words are swallowed in Zola's affectionate greeting. "I missed you too," he admits, as she squeezes him around the neck with her pudgy little arms.

"I went swimming," Zola chatters as he carries her the rest of the way to the table. "In the pool, Daddy."

"You did? That sounds fun." He kisses one soft cheek and then they're swallowed up by the larger Shepherd family.

Zola is unintimidated by the crowd, wriggling to get down where she's instantly beckoned by Chloe and Caitlin. Derek watches his daughter with her cousins for a moment, then turns back to Meredith. The set of her chin betrays her tiredness, but she smiles warmly at him. She's holding Vivian by the hand, he notices now. Viv is watching Zola; he can't see her expression, but her hair is in two long braids he realizes must be Meredith's handiwork.

He's debating whether and how to engage her when Caitlin calls her name, waving toward their side of the table, where somehow paper and crayons have appeared and Zola is already being passed from lap to lap.

Vivian glances up at Meredith, who nods encouragingly, and then flip-flops her way to Caitlin's side. Derek sees her face only briefly; she looks tired and puffy-eyed.

With both her charges otherwise occupied, Meredith moves in closer, resting her head against his shoulder. He holds her tightly for a moment, wishing it could be longer, inhales the scent of her hair – locker room shampoo, he supposes; it smells expensive and unfamiliar, but underneath it is everything he recognizes.

"Newlyweds," Kathleen says, and he realizes they have an audience.

"We're not newlyweds," Derek says, annoyed and not sure why. Meredith rests a calming hand on his arm.

"Relatively speaking," Kathleen amends, sounding defensive.

Not everything is relative. But he's not about to get into an argument with any of his sisters, much less the one who likes to make amateur diagnoses.

He focuses instead on his daughter, across the table, basking in her cousins' warm attention. They're competing openly for her time, which she seems to appreciate. Viv is hanging back, but he can see that she's talking to Caitlin and declines to intervene.

Meredith slides in next to him. "They're so good with Zola," she says appreciatively as his mother hurries to pass her a menu and, he assumes, to feed her.

Derek watches his nieces and nephews for a moment, seeing them through her eyes. The children he knew, so much older now, with _his_ child. "There are always kids around in a big family," he says by way of explanation. "You know, they get used to looking out for them … entertaining them …"

Meredith's gaze is distractingly soft. He brushes his fingers against her temple, moving a waved strand from her face.

"What is it?" he asks.

"I was just thinking … that I kind of wished Zola could have a big family." Tilting her chin, she indicates the other side of the table, their daughter in her adoring throng of cousins-in-waiting. "And then I realized she already does."

…

They're two baskets of bread in, hearty pasta dishes that would make Nancy's nose wrinkle, and only two tipped beverages.

"It's not a family dinner unless someone spills something," Christopher reminds the table, as Zola pokes experimentally at the wet paper-covered tablecloth. The waitress who brings her a fresh glass of milk can't seem to resist pinching one of Zola's irresistibly round cheeks and Zola, who knows a good thing when she sees one, reacts with a smile so wide she's rewarded with a maraschino cherry on the waitress's next round.

" _So_ good," Zola says happily, showing her parents the empty stem. "Like a gummy bear," she adds, causing a soft ripple of laughter.

"What do you say?" Meredith prompts gently.

"Thank you," Zola tells the waitress sweetly, then points to her friend. "Give Vivi one too, okay," she orders in a cheerful tone.

Vivian glances up at her name, her cheeks coloring slightly when she sees everyone looking at her. Derek notices Caitlin resting a protecting hand on her back and gives his niece a grateful look.

"Oh, what a sweetheart. I'll be right back." The waitress looks impressed with Zola's concern and Derek is rather impressed himself.

Vivian accepts the cherry, holding it delicately by the stem and thanking the waitress politely.

"Vivi!" Zola slides off Chloe's lap once the waitress has left and pads to her older friend. "Share?" she asks hopefully

Laughter moves along the table again; Derek and Meredith exchange an amused look. "Viv, she's already had one, you don't need to share," Meredith says quietly. Vivian ignores her and hands the cherry to Zola.

"You can have it," she says, and Zola beams.

"You're a _really_ good sharer," Zola tells Vivian, patting her arm with one cherry-sticky hand before clambering back into her cousin's lap.

"Highway robbery," Derek says, shaking his head, and Liz grins at him from next to their mother. He turns to Meredith. "What are we going to do?"

"It will correct itself," Liz says, sounding amused. "She can't be this cute forever."

"They never are," Kathleen adds.

"Thanks a lot," Chloe pipes in, feigning affront.

Zola has finished her second cherry and moved on to another roll with copious cousin-spread butter. She's shunned the adorably small kids' plate of pasta and meatballs they ordered for her; Viv, who shrugged unenthusiastic assent at their first suggestion, has somehow figured out how to eat spaghetti with perfect manners and zero mess. Derek is frankly impressed; he's not sure he could twirl pasta so politely and effectively before his thirties. And he's pleased to see Viv eating anything, though he also notices that despite her dexterity, she's made very little headway on the plate.

He's about to say something encouraging – though he's not sure what – when he hears the chimes on the door ring again and glances up to see who's arrived.

Vivian is bent over the drawing pad as he approaches; Caitlin points to something, maybe asking a question, but before Viv can answer she seems to notice the rustling behind her.

"Daddy," she breathes, dropping her crayon and grabbing him around the waist.

Mark's eyes are closed, one of his big hands covering Viv's head, moving carefully like he's memorizing her. When he cups her face and tilts it up, Derek can see in his expression that he can tell she's been crying. He doesn't say anything, though, just brushes her cheeks with his thumbs. Moments pass in which he seems lost in his daughter, and then he seems to remember that he's just arrived at a bustling table of Shepherds.

Liz, ever the hostess, makes his welcome warm and brief – Derek has a moment of appreciation for his oldest sister, realizing that Caitlin's gentle and empathetic treatment of Mark's daughter must have come from somewhere. It's Liz's careful corralling of the crowd that gets the rest of the family to return to their previous discussion so that Mark can focus on Vivian, who has been holding onto both his hands during the momentary interruption.

"I didn't know you were coming here," she says to her father, shooting Derek a mildly treacherous look. Apparently it's his fault; he'll take it. "Nobody told me," she adds.

"That's my fault." Mark takes the seat Vivian vacated and lifts her into his lap. "I wasn't sure if I could make it."

"Are we going home? After?" Viv tips her head back to see her father's face.

"I need to go back to the hospital," Mark says after a moment. "So you're going to stay with Zola and her parents for one more night, okay?"

Viv glances across the table. She looks torn, perhaps between her often surprisingly sensitive manners and her desire to go back to her own house.

"I don't want to," she whispers finally.

"I know, baby, I wish I could take you home, believe me." Mark holds her close for a moment, then pushes her gently back to see her face. "I need you to be brave, okay?"

Vivian turns slightly; Derek watches as she seems to catch Meredith's eye across the table. Just for a moment, before her gaze flickers away.

"Okay," she says. She pats her father's arm with one small hand. "It's okay."

…

They were mostly finished by Mark's arrival, although Derek knows his mother must be champing at the bit to feed up the uncharacteristically thin man who sat at her dinner table as a boy. He ends up finishing Viv's meal when she refuses to eat any more of it; Derek is aware it's probably futile to argue with either Sloan.

Somehow, like so many things that have taken place during their time in Manhattan, Mark's entrance at a Shepherd family dinner for the first time since Derek's own small Shepherd family was severed … is far less climactic than he would have predicted. His sisters are friendly enough, but let him focus on his child. He catches a few of his sisters' children glancing at Mark with curiosity – the twins must barely remember him, but he was a fixture in the older ones' lives when they were young. Vivian, for her part, knots her fingers in her father's shirt and declines to leave his lap even when the waitress who fell in love with Zola brings an unexpected slice of cake.

Then it's every other Shepherd family dinner, with a good-natured argument over the bill and Carolyn's assurance that everyone has an approved way home. She seems satisfied that Liz will accompany the twins back to Brooklyn – "we're taking _her_ ," Joy corrects, and Derek can't decide whether Nancy's daughters seem a little fresh because their mother is absent tonight or simply because Nancy is their mother.

"You're staying with Nancy tonight," Carolyn confirms, glancing from Liz to Kathleen, as the family spills out onto the humid sidewalk. Derek doesn't miss the look that passes between Joy and Sarah.

"She's having work done on the third floor," Liz shrugs.

"You're not staying in a hotel at these prices." Carolyn looks concerned. "Or driving all the way back to Connecticut – Elizabeth – "

"Mom, it's fine," Liz reassures her patiently. "We're staying at Nancy's friends' place."

"All of you?"

"It's a brownstone, and they're away for the summer."

Derek listens with some amusement as his sister, who is nearing her mid-fifties and has been practicing medicine for three decades, runs the logistics of her evening plans by their mother.

When Carolyn is satisfied and has bestowed good nights on all her other grandchildren – each of whom is taller than her by this point – she turns to Derek.

"I'm sleeping at the apartment," he says, lifting both hands in mock surrender, and his mother shakes her head.

"A parent worries, Derek. You know that."

"I do know that." He smiles at her, a little impressed that she can still treat them so much the same so many years later.

"Come back to the apartment," Vivian is begging Mark now, hanging onto one of his big hands with both of her small ones. "Please?"

Mark exchanges a glance with Derek that's universal-father, fear that it will be harder for her to separate if he takes that extra step. He does it anyway, carrying Viv on his shoulders for the walk back while Derek cradles a sleeping Zola. Meredith cast him only one sidelong glance when he urged her to accompany his mother home in a taxi; he's fairly certain her silence has something to do with her encouraging him to spend time with Mark.

And so they do: side by side, with their daughters, they walk together along the slow hot blocks between the restaurant and the temporary apartment.

They don't talk, not really – the streets are noisy with traffic and whirring air conditioners dropping the occasional moist pellet onto his neck or the top of his head. Zola sleeps peacefully despite the humidity and the honking of horns, and when Derek glances up he sees that Vivian, though still awake, is slumped tiredly on her father's shoulders.

He wants to say something, some words – supportive? Encouraging?

One look at Mark's expression as they cross into the chilly, light-flooded lobby, and he realizes he has no idea what those words could be.

Inside the apartment, he settles a sleeping Zola in his and Meredith's bed – she wakes briefly, and Meredith moves in to soothe her. He returns to the living area to see his mother bidding Mark good night.

"Don't go yet." Viv's lower lip is trembling when he approaches.

"Vivi, come on. You said you wouldn't do this if I walked back with you." Mark's tone suggests he realizes this tactic is futile.

Derek trails them to the front door, any feeling he's intruding washes away by Mark's quick glance of gratitude.

"I'm going to see you tomorrow," he tells Viv, who immediately shakes her head and reaches for him. "Vivi…"

"I want to go with you," she pleads.

"Hey." He kneels down when she continues to protest, holding her away from him by the arms when she tries to cling to his neck. "Listen to me. I need you to stay here so I can go back to Mommy. Don't you want me to try to help her?"

"Maybe she wants to see me."

"I know she wants to see you, baby, but she's just not ready yet. You've got to give me a little time."

"No," Vivian whimpers. "I want you to stay here."

"Vivi." He holds on to her. "I _can't_ stay here. Mommy needs me."

"So do I!"

Derek sees the pain in Mark's face, sees the moment his hands tighten on Vivian's little arms without realizing.

"Ow," she whimpers and he releases her immediately, shaking his hands as if he's been burned.

"I'm sorry." He rubs her arms gently. "I didn't mean to do that, baby, I wasn't – I wasn't paying attention."

She clings to him and Mark crouches on the ground with a helpless expression, stroking her back and speaking to her too quietly for Derek to hear. Finally he stands up, Viv still in his arms.

"Don't go," she says again, turning her face into his shoulder.

Mark meets Derek's gaze, shaking his head. "Maybe I shouldn't have come," he says quietly. He looks torn, guilty, as he cradles Vivian against him. He shifts her to one arm, checks his watch, and then shakes his head again.

"Okay, baby, I'm going to see you tomorrow." He holds her close for another moment. "I promise."

But when he tries to set her down, she refuses, growing more frantic as Mark starts to get impatient.

"Vivi, let go. Remember what I – come on. _Vivian._ "

The sharper Mark's tone, the more intent Viv seems to be on holding on to him. Derek hovers, skirting the line between supporting and interfering, and then regrets his reticence when Mark finally peels Vivian away from him with enough force for her to lose her balance and fall down on the parquet floor.

Mark curses, crouching down to pick her up. "I _told_ you to let go," he scolds, but the guilt in his voice is obvious. "You okay? Look at me." He skims his hands over her. "If you would just listen to me, this wouldn't – come on, Vivi, you're okay. Stop crying."

She doesn't.

"Tell me where it hurts," he proposes.

She shakes her head as if to say, _I can't._

Mark's expression is helpless; he kisses the sharp point of her little elbow and one of her knees, reasonable guesses based on the way she fell.

Then he checks the time again with the hand that's not holding his daughter and gives Derek a meaningful look.

"Viv," Derek says tentatively, "can you help me with something that Zola – "

"No!" she shouts. He should have realized she would see right through that.

"Hey." Mark frowns. "Don't yell."

"I _don't_ like him!"

At Vivian's words, in spite of himself, in spite of knowing how upset Viv is and understanding her desire to lash out, Derek feels an unexpected twinge of hurt. Still, he tries to communicate wordlessly to Mark to drop it.

He doesn't, though.

"Don't be rude," Mark scolds Vivian. "Derek is doing us a favor."

Viv looks from one of them to the other, like she's considering her options; Derek finds himself wincing at Mark's phrasing. A sticky silence descends.

"Sorry," Vivian mutters finally, vaguely in Derek's direction, not looking particularly sincere, and then slips her thumb into her mouth.

"That's my good girl." Mark kisses the top of her head. "I really have to go now, Vivi, I'm already going to be late." Derek sees the fingers of her free hand tighten in his shirt and sees Mark wince in response. "Baby, please …"

In the end Derek has to help Mark pry Vivian away from him, which is about as pleasant as it sounds. She seems to suddenly have sprouted as many arms and legs as an octopus and she cries angrily when Derek intercedes. Finally, he's able to restrain her long enough for Mark to say one last apologetic goodnight, admonishing Viv to behave and promising her he'll try to call later, before the door closes behind him. Derek is left holding an enraged little girl – she thrashes and kicks, hard, and he's suddenly reminded of the much smaller girl he helped Mark with at Clara's disastrous wedding, who kicked him so viciously with her tiny party shoes while Mark tried to keep her mother from interfering with Amy's arrest.

The interceding years have improved her strength, and it's with some difficulty that he frees a hand to turn the deadbolt a foot and a half over Viv's head before he sets her on her feet. She launches herself at the locked door anyway, sobbing, and pulls uselessly at the knob.

"Let me out," she demands.

"I can't do that, Viv."

Her words are muffled by her tears but he can make out _go with him._

"I know you wanted to go. I'm sorry." Not sure what else to do, Derek sits down on the ground, but stays out of kicking range.

Meredith peers around the wall divider after a few moments; he shrugs slightly in her direction as they both watch Viv tugging on the doorknob and crying. Their wordless exchange is brief; over Vivian's cries he hears Zola calling for her mother – she must have been awakened by the hubbub – and Meredith disappears to tend to her.

Eventually Vivian seems to wear herself out, sliding down the locked front door until she too is sitting sprawled on the floor and slipping her thumb in her mouth, occasionally sniffing noisily. Her long braids have turned messy, locks of damp hair hanging around her flushed face, and tears continue to run down her wet cheeks.

When her tears have turns mostly to hitching breaths, Derek gets up in search of tissues.

"Where are you going?"

He turns around at the scratchy little voice. "To get some tissues for you." He smiles tentatively at her. "I'll be right back. Okay?"

She doesn't answer, but she's still sitting there when he returns. She makes no move to help him, but when he crouches down in front of her, she lets him wipe her face. It takes some strategizing since she continues to suck her thumb.

"Did you hurt yourself when you fell, before?" he asks.

She shakes her head.

"Good." He studies her for a moment. She looks very small hunched on the floor with her thumb in her mouth. "Do you want a drink of water?"

She shakes her head.

"You want to go sit in the other room, where it's more comfortable?"

She shakes her head again.

"Okay." He gestures to the floor. "Can I just keep sitting here with you, then?"

Very slowly, she nods.

He slides down the opposite wall until he's mirroring her posture. Vivian doesn't look at him, just sucks her thumb pensively around the hiccupy breaths that attend the aftermath of tears, worrying the end of one braid with her free hand.

...

Zola drifts back to sleep quickly once she's in her mother's arms, but her little fingers grasp tightly: one clutches the fabric of her t-shirt, and the other weaves into her hair. Meredith can hear, faintly, the commotion from the entryway – she's put music on to soothe Zola, but it can only drown out so much. She's torn, wanting to help Derek with the unenviably difficult – and sad – task of dealing with Vivian, yet not wanting to let go of her own child, who is still clinging hard.

It's the tiniest taste of what she knows Mark's life has become, torn between supporting the two most important people in her life. All she knows is that she loves each immeasurably, and yet that love is not enough to put her in two places at once.

It feels unfair.

It should be.

As it is, she holds her daughter close and breathes in her sweet scent until Carolyn trudges in, perhaps somehow aware of Meredith's dilemma. Or maybe a woman who raised five children alone is used to feeling torn. Either way, she smiles encouragingly at Meredith, offering with a wordless gesture to sit with Zola. Gently disentangling her daughter, and confirming she'll continue to sleep, Meredith makes her way toward what she now realizes is a silent front hall.

They didn't leave …?

She's confused until she rounds the corner and Derek looks up at her from the floor where he's sitting, legs stretched out in front of him. He lifts a finger to his lips and then points silently toward the front door. A few more steps and she sees what he was indicating: slumped against the front door, thumb in her mouth, head drooping toward one small shoulder, is Vivian. Her tear streaked face and mussed hair speak to her earlier distress, but she's looks calm in sleep, even peaceful. Keeping her footsteps light, Meredith makes her way to Derek's side and lowers herself carefully – he reaches up to ease her down – to the floor beside him. She leans her head against his shoulder and he wraps an arm around her back. Then she takes his other hand in hers and moves it gently to the rise in her midsection. Even in total silence, his posture telegraphs his emotions when he feels what she did a moment ago – their son's kick, healthy and strong.

And then he stands, carefully and quietly, and takes her hands to help her to her feet before she can protest that she's fine on her own. With some maneuvering, he manages to lift Vivian without waking her. Meredith accompanies him to the junior bedroom that even in her absence continued to feel like it was Viv's. She's already grabbed the smiling black and white panda from the larger guest room where Carolyn will sleep, and it's resting atop the puffy comforter. Meredith draws back the covers on the small bed so Derek can set down the bundle in his arms.

They breathe a joint sigh of relief when Viv stays asleep, and another when they return to their bedroom to see that Derek's mother has kept watch over a slumbering Zola. Carolyn smiles softly at them, her lips pressed together a bit in silent sympathy for Vivian – and, Meredith is certain, for her parents – before she takes her leave.

And then it's just their small family of three, four if you count the life growing within her, the one where she rests her hand as she's drifting off, and Derek rests his too, with Zola curled between them.

If she could hold onto them tighter, she would.

…

The scream that wakes him is the worst one he's heard, reminiscent of that night in the hospital when he first came across Vivian's sleep disturbance – but somehow more terrifying.

He should have predicted this would happen, that's what he's thinking as he swings his legs out of bed while he assures Meredith he can handle it. She's cuddling an already whimpering Zola, who was startled awake by Vivian's cries.

Truthfully, he has no idea if he can handle it. He's frantically trying to remember how Mark handled it when he realizes, half-asleep and horrified, that Viv's bed is empty.

Cursing to himself and suddenly fully alert, he tracks the sound of her screams to the kitchen – or the outside of the kitchen.

The sight is nothing short of eerie and he pauses to take it in. Apparently blocked by the baby gates Meredith thought to install, Vivian is standing just outside the kitchen, both her hands raised slightly in the air as if she's pushing on something. She's like a very small, ghostly mime.

And then she screams again, not a mime at all. The sound is heartbreaking – she seems utterly terrified, even if he's almost certain she's asleep and she won't remember.

Carefully, he makes his way toward her. She's determinedly pushing on nothing, perhaps trying to get into the kitchen. Then she pivots, very slowly, and looks right through him.

Derek's mouth dries.

Vivian's lips part and Derek braces for more screaming but she's quieter this time, more desperate. _Help me,_ she pleads, her voice laced with terror. _Help me!_

"Viv, it's okay," he offers, unable to stop himself from trying to provide comfort even if she can't understand him.

She's hysterical then, somewhere between asleep and awake in a state the neurosurgeon in him finds fascinating and the father in him finds terrifying. She cries for her father and mother in turn, her words as clear as her eyes are unfocused.

And then with no warning she wakes with a start – he sees her face change, her eyes, like a shade opening on a window – and then bursts into tears, gasping for breath and sinking to her knees on the parquet floor.

"Okay, Viv, you're okay." He moves in to support her, not liking the choked sounds coming from her throat. "Breathe, sweetie."

Her little body is trembling under his hands. Of course she's confused and disoriented. "You're at our apartment tonight," he reminds her quietly, "with me, and Meredith, and Zola."

Her eyes are darting around the room, little panicked breaths escaping her.

"You're okay, Viv. I just need you to breathe," he coaxes her, rubbing her shaking back in slow circles. "Take some nice deep breaths for me, okay? You can do it. Nice and slow. Breathe."

She doesn't.

She coughs instead, gagging and then pulling away from him to vomit on the floor. She's eaten so little that there's not much for her to bring up, but she keeps heaving: the second time is mostly water, the third is stripes of yellow bile.

Derek does what he can to hold back her long messy hair but there's so much of it that he can't quite manage, and to comfort her, but Vivian seems beyond comfort. And then Meredith is at his side, assuring him that Zola is fine and with his mother, and he's sighing with pure, shameful relief at the sheer comfort of his wife's presence.

…

The pungent odor of vomit hits her first, before she takes in the heartbreaking scene of Derek trying to comfort a distraught Vivian. Pausing to squeeze her husband's shoulder reassuringly, and make he knows Zola is taken care of, she does a hasty job of clearing the floor and dampens fresh towels to clean up Vivian, who is intermittently crying and coughing.

Meredith watches as Viv chokes on another round of coughs, gagging and stopping just short of vomiting again.

Derek's expression is grim. "Do you think we should …?" Derek asks cautiously, apparently not willing to say something along the lines of _call Mark_ when Vivian is able to hear. Meredith knows what Mark must be dealing with at the hospital – and she knows Derek knows more.

Slowly, Meredith shakes her head. She's kneeling on the floor with them now, listening to Viv's jagged breaths between cries and Derek's attempts to calm her down.

 _Take a bath_.

The words pop into her head as if Viv's spoken them herself once more. But she hasn't, not tonight – it was what she said what feels like a lifetime ago, during her first visit to the apartment. Distraught after what Meredith now knows must have been a smaller sleep terror, Vivian offered the suggestion when Meredith asked what would soothe her.

And it did.

"Derek," she whispers. "I'm going to go run a bath."

He looks up at her with gratitude, and no small measure of trust – if he's curious about why she's doing so, he doesn't ask.

 _God, I hope this works._

Derek carries a weeping Vivian into the master bathroom when Meredith gestures that she's ready – the tub is filled with warm water, the same scented bubble bath she used during Viv's first visit. With Zola occupied in the guest bedroom with Grammy – hopefully sleeping, but at the very least comforted – the bathroom is steamy and quiet. Viv's cries echo off the mirrors when Derek sets her on her feet. Meredith takes tentative steps toward her, speaking quietly and indicating the bathtub. Vivian doesn't move. She's still wearing the shorts and t-shirt she put on at the Alliance, soaked through with sweat from her night terror. The front of the shirt is spattered with vomit and Viv doesn't object when Meredith strips it carefully over her head. She's shivering in her underwear, still refusing to get into the bath.

"It might make you feel better," Meredith tells her softly.

Viv clings to Derek, who looks as surprised as Meredith feels. Her throat is thick as she sees how seriously Derek takes his obligation to stand in for Mark, offering Vivian the closest substitute he can for the paternal shoulder she can't cry on. She takes a moment to love what he's doing. To love him for doing what Mark can't.

 _What would I want someone to do for Zola, if I couldn't?_

Slipping out of her lightweight sweatpants, so she's clad only in the tank top she planned to sleep in and her underwear, she climbs into the tub.

The warm water is undeniably soothing as it bubbles fragrantly over her shoulders. She sees Vivian is watching her with round, tearful eyes. Meredith draws a deep breath, then looks up at Derek, who nods.

Carefully, he leans over the tub and places Viv in her arms. She sobs at first, her voice hoarse from all her crying, but slowly calms down in the warm water. Meredith settles her slight weight flush against her own body, not speaking, letting the water's embrace combine with her own. Meredith holds her close, Viv's little arms and legs coming to wrap around the swell of Meredith's midsection until only their heads are out of the water.

She feels – and is certain Viv does too – the fluttering, insistent kick of her unborn son. Heavy and weightless at once in the water, all three of them float until a finally silent Viv falls asleep in the lapping bubbles, one of her hands fisted in Meredith's hair.

"You did it," Derek says quietly, and Meredith glances over, remembering where they are. Derek's eyes are very soft, watching them.

…

He needs to see Zola. With Vivian calmed by Meredith's ingenuity and her presence, toweled dry and sleeping heavily in the middle of the big bed in one of his wife's t-shirts, he goes in search of his own child. He finds her curled up asleep against his mother, who is sitting up in bed with an open book in her lap.

"She's okay," Derek says quietly. "Sleeping now. Meredith got to her sleep, actually."

"That poor child." His mother shakes her head.

"Thank you, for watching Zola."

"You don't have to thank me, son," she says quietly.

He's somewhat surprised, come to think of it, that she never emerged to investigate. His mother was always in the center of things, in his memories, splitting up arguments and doling out chores and soothing nightmares.

He says as much to his mother.

"I knew you were taking care of it," she says by way of explanation.

"You weren't worried about Vivian?"

"I was sorry for her," Carolyn says, stroking Zola's silky bare arm. "But I wasn't worried about her. She was with you."

He sits on the side of the bed for a moment, his throat surprisingly thick. He used to sit on the side of his mother's bed like this sometimes, as a teenager. _Is something troubling you, son?_ his mother might ask.

"I only wish your father were here," his mother adds quietly, "to see what wonderful fathers you are."

He's halfway back to his bedroom with a sleeping Zola in his arms before he realizes his mother said _fathers_ , plural.

…

 _The sun will come up, every day._ It was one of his mother's aphorisms – supposedly from _her_ mother – and it was as resolute as Carolyn herself.

It's demonstrably true, too: the sun rises the next morning hot and gold through the windows despite the disturbed sleep of the apartment's occupants. Derek wakes first with Zola sprawled snoring softly on his chest. Next to him, Meredith is curled on her side toward Vivian, who is resting on her back with one cheek resting on the back of one hand, sleeping so neutrally and quietly it's hard to believe she's the same child.

Derek finds his mother in the kitchen, where they share a cup of coffee. The morning progresses slow and liquid, Derek assuring Vivian when she wakes that Mark – who emailed a few hours after he left with no substantive update other than gratitude – will see her soon.

If Viv remembers the events of last night, she offers no sign of it. She drinks a few sips of milk at Carolyn's coaxing and plays patiently with Zola and the brightly colored blocks his daughter has decided constitute her new favorite toy.

Meredith sips the decaf he brewed her, leaning her hips against the counter. In the living room, his mother is settled comfortable on the couch watching the girls play.

"You were incredible last night," Derek tells her quietly, then pauses when a smile squints her eyes in that way that he loves. "What?"

"Nothing," she assures him. "It's just – that's not usually what you mean when you say that."

He laughs in spite of himself. It feels good, after the tension of last night. And she looks good.

 _The sun will come up, every day._

He takes the mug out of her hand and sets it on the counter, then pulls her close swiftly enough to make her laugh with surprise. "You're right," he tells her, planting a kiss on the tender side of her neck. "And maybe one of these days I can mean what I usually mean … if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," she says, amused, and he swallows her next laugh with another kiss.

…

"He's coming," Viv confirms for the third time, bouncing a little in her seat. "Right?"

"Right," Derek assures her, glancing automatically toward the condensation-dusted front windows of the diner. The AC is pumping enough to raise gooseflesh – not that he's complaining, not really.

He tries not to stare at the empty vinyl-padded chair waiting for its absent occupant. Viv and Zola are sharing a plate of pancakes – or Viv is cutting the occasional neat bite for herself while Zola stabs what she can reach and finally resorts to her fingers.

His mother says something to Vivian that he can't hear, but she gives the older woman a small smile in response.

Before he can inquire, his phone buzzes.

He excuses himself to take a call _from a patient_ – Meredith meets his gaze without giving anything away – and then he's rounding the side of the bodega on the corner where Mark is waiting.

"Hey." Mark's hands are shoved in his pockets. There are deep shadows under his eyes – if he slept at all last night, there's no evidence. There's something else in his eyes too, something Derek doesn't want to read too closely.

Slowly, Mark shakes his head.

They're both doctors; he doesn't have to say more than that.

Mark's gaze is fixed on the slivers of hazy sky poking between the undistinguished mid-rise skyline. "I told them no."

Derek nods, trying to understand. "No," he repeats.

"I didn't sign," Mark clarifies.

So he didn't authorize the termination.

He said no.

He considers asking why – when it's what Mark has wanted, as far as he can tell, from the beginning, from long before Derek returned to Manhattan.

Why did he have the opportunity to end the pregnancy that he was certain was threatening his wife's life, and choose not to?

"I don't know why," Mark says, so presciently Derek thinks for a moment he might have inadvertently asked his question out loud.

"You don't?"

"No." Mark grimaces. "I just … said no."

Without agreeing to they walk in tandem toward the diner, stopping outside the glass windows.

Mark knows his own daughter and probably isn't fooled by her relative cheer, but Derek is still relieved that when he gazes through the window, his daughter is clean and calm. They watch together as Zola pinches off a piece of pancake and feeds it a surprised-seeming Viv. They can't hear anything from inside the restaurant, but Viv's laugh is obvious in her face. Meredith is laughing helplessly too, he can tell, as his mother, with a broad smile, tries to help both girls with the stickiness he knows is coming from Zola's syrupy fingers.

Mark's eyes are glistening when he turns back to Derek. "I'm going to take her back with me," he says quietly. "So she can … so she can see her."

 _So she can say goodbye_.

"I'm so sorry." There are no other words.

"Yeah, me too." Mark grips the back of his neck with one hand. "It could be fast now. I want to get back there. But…"

His voice trails off.

For a moment Derek pictures the Addison he saw – not the intubated Addison Meredith saw, but the very much like herself version in the hospital bed at MSC, so clearly attached to her pregnancy, a hand resting on it.

Mark said no.

He thinks about the life still growing within her.

Together, they turn back to the glass where their daughters are laughing together.

"I want to wait," Mark says quietly. "Just … let her have a little more time as a kid first."

…

"Daddy!"

Viv jumps up when she sees her father and Mark catches her, lifting her into the air for hugs and kisses. "I missed you," he tells her.

Mark kisses her cheeks until she pushes him away and says, "No, you're too scratchy." He pulls out the chair where she was sitting before and sits down with his daughter on his lap. Viv goes back to coloring; Mark plays with the end of her braid – which, to his surprise, she let Meredith weave into her hair this morning.

Derek takes a sip of coffee, seeing his hand shake slightly and seeing at the same time that Meredith didn't miss it. The news Mark shared with him sits like a rock in his stomach.

Almost seven years ago, he walked out of Mark's life – and Addison's – forever.

Almost two weeks ago, he walked back in.

He studies the two little girls who wouldn't be either of theirs without the events of that fateful night. Zola, who is giggling while looking up adoringly at her older friend, and Viv, who is bestowing upon her the benevolent smile of a girl who's spent years practicing for younger siblings.

Mark looks lost in thought – understandably – toying with the end of Vivian's braid with one large hand.

A phone buzzes loudly on the table. It's Mark's; he glances at it and mouths a hasty apology before answering.

"Sloan," he says gruffly, taking a sip of water and clearing his throat.

Derek leans forward slightly; he can hear a muffled voice, but he can't make out any words from the other side.

"Right," Mark says. "Yeah. I'll be back in about thirty – "

The next thing Derek hears is the shattering of glass.

It happens in slow motion and then the diner hollows out, the other tables turn into echoes.

It's not real, this tunneling effect. He knows it and he knows the science behind it but he sees the restaurant growing smaller anyway.

And smaller.

Mark is far away, along with the glass he dropped, the loud noise, the news from his phone call.

As if from very far away, he hears his own name.

"Derek." Meredith's voice is echoing, then becoming clearer.

He blinks and gathers himself; she's touching his arm with one small hand, her face concerned. "Derek … did you hear what Mark just said?"

 _No._

Truthfully, he didn't.

Shamefully, he's not sure he wants to.

Still, he looks up, preparing himself.

Mark is staring straight ahead, his face set in lines of shock, holding onto his daughter with one hand and still clutching the phone in the other.

When he speaks, Derek is still not prepared.

He braces himself as Mark looks up at him before he speaks, just two words, laced with wonder:

"She's awake."

* * *

 _So ... I won't let months go by before I update again, I promise. I'm rusty and I may not deserve it, but I'm going to ask you to review anyway and let me know what you think. I love hearing your thoughts and I will make sure they fuel me to post again very soon._


	44. INTERLUDE: everything will change

**A/N: This chapter is another Interlude. Those of you who've been requesting more of Mark, Addison, and Vivian's life together pre-illness, this is your (ridiculously long) chapter. (Well, one of them.) Same deal as always with the interludes: they take place before the story started, and the next chapter we'll get back to the main story timeline. Thank you for the great feedback on the last chapter. I know this is a long, _long_ story, and looking back I probably should have split it into two stories, but you can't undo the past. I can't promise I'll stop at 50, but this story is going somewhere and it won't be that much beyond that. So thank you again for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

INTERLUDE

 _everything will change_

 _..._

* * *

WEDNESDAY

"What if I can't do it?"

"We wouldn't let you do it at home if we were concerned," Addison tells her patient soothingly. The well-dressed woman on her office couch has _first timer_ written all over her.

Her repeat patients are the ones who don't blink at needles, who dial FSH pens without breaking conversation stride and mix solutions for injection in airplane bathrooms without spilling a drop.

Everyone is a first-timer, once.

"Jamie." Addison leans forward. "I have total faith that you can do this."

Her patient – she's a Wall Street mover and shaker whose shoes rival Addison's own, hardly new to challenges, looks up at her with teary dark eyes. "What if it doesn't work?"

"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Addison passes her patient a tissue – there are discreet boxes in a few places in her office; she was well aware when she started focusing more on fertility that they would get unfortunately frequent use. "Jamie … this is the first step. You can do this."

"Yeah." She's twisting small hands in her lap; a sparkling diamond catches the mid-afternoon light. "I guess." She looks up at Addison again, her cheeks flushing. "It must seem ridiculous to you, the needles and – I mean, it must be nothing to you."

"It's not nothing," Addison assures her. "As a doctor – yes, I'm used to needles, at work. But it's different when it's you, at home."

"When it's you, at …" Jamie's eyes widen. "You mean you've done it too?"

Slowly, Addison nods. She needs to tread carefully – she doesn't want her patient to feel alone, but she also doesn't want to get into the details. There's a line between empathy, and sharing that she's sore herself from progesterone, that she was in the stirrups this morning instead of wheeling around the office taking measurements.

 _It's a numbers game._

And then there are her results.

So she doesn't say anything else, and when Jamie's gaze slides toward the wall, where several large, framed pictures of Vivian hang in stair-step fashion, she doesn't correct the misconception.

 _She was an accident. A perfect, perfect accident. When we tried – and we did try – we couldn't do it._

"She's beautiful," Jamie says. "How old is she?"

"Five. Well, five and three quarters, she'd want me to clarify, but she was a little younger in those."

Addison smiles, as she can't help doing when she looks at those pictures.

They're lovely shots, taken by a grateful patient, a professional photographer who credited Addison with her healthy twins. Addison's not sure anyone's ever taken a bad picture of Viv, but there's something about these – skill, she supposes, because the photographer captured something of her daughter that she's not sure she and Mark have been able to with their own simple point-and-shoot cameras. The pictures are so very much _Viv_ , solemn and silly all at once, her blue eyes crinkled up with laughter in one portrait, wide and thoughtful in the next. The images feel real, almost as if she could look up on a busy day stacked with charts and stare directly into her daughter's sweet freckled face.

"But what if I inject the wrong site?"

Drawn back to reality, Addison reassures her patient while she passes her the business card of one of her former nurses who now has her own consulting service. _In the Tree Tops_ , that's what it's called. Addison tries not to think about the rest of the lyrics to the song:

 _When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall._

"Brenda Bradford used to work with me," Addison tells Jamie. "She or one of her nurses will come to you, whenever it's convenient – in the office, at home – and help you with the injections. Every day, twice a day, whatever you need."

Jamie's shoulders sag with relief, and Addison smiles.

 _And down will come baby, cradle and all._

…

She's reviewing her last chart – a patient with triplets implanted by an irresponsible clinic; Addison and her partners would never transfer more than two, particularly at this patient's age – when the intercom buzzes.

"You have a visitor, Doctor Montgomery."

Addison pushes back her wheeled chair, smiling. "Send her in."

The door opens and a little blur covers the carpeted floor between them.

"Mommy!" Viv clambers onto her lap before Addison can stand up. She draws her daughter close for a hug and kisses one freckled cheek.

"You got some sun today," she observes.

"Uh-huh. I had tennis." Viv turns around, relaxing against her, Addison noticing with a pang how low her little feet in their sneaker-soled mary janes hang. She's getting so big.

"You're almost too tall to fit on my lap," she teases her daughter, pulling her in for another hug. "Stop growing."

"Am not!" Viv wriggles around again to face her mother. "You sit on Daddy's lap and you're almost the same tall as him."

Addison notices Needa, leaning inconspicuously against the far wall of her office, hiding a smile behind her hand. She has one of her own for Viv's flattering and not entirely accurate view of her mother's height.

"How was tennis?" she asks Viv instead.

"Good." Vivian pats her bag.

"She's being modest," Needa says, "she didn't let that little boy get a shot in."

"That's my girl." Addison toys with one of Viv's long braids. "You're going to beat me soon."

"She passed me a while ago," Needa says with an exaggeratedly mournful expression. Then she smiles as if she just remembered something. "Oh, but I don't know how to play tennis."

"You do know how to play. You're good," Vivian tells her nanny loyally. She glances toward Addison. "Will you play with me at the house?"

Addison pauses, and Viv picks up on it. She's so quick, it's hard to get anything past her.

"We're going, right? This weekend? Mommy, you said we're going." She scoots down from her mother's lap and turns to face her.

Needa gives her a supportive smile, while Vivian props small hands on her hips.

"You _said_ we could go," Viv repeats.

"I know, Vivi. We'll go. If we can," she adds, and Vivian's face changes from satisfaction to suspicion again.

"But you said – "

"Vivian," Needa interrupts, her tone perfectly calm, "did you remember you wanted to show Mommy what you made in pottery?"

"Oh yeah." Vivian throws one last look over her shoulder before rooting in the green canvas backpack that sometimes looks as big as she is.

Addison mouths a _thank you_ to Viv's nanny, who smiles easily as if distracting Vivian was nothing at all.

"Look, Mommy." Vivian is holding a lump of shining clay aloft in patches of blues and greens. "It's Earth," Viv says as if it's obvious.

"I knew that." Addison takes the globe in her hands. It's heavy.

"It's for your desk," Viv explains, pointing. Addison sets the earth down between a stack of patient files and broken-spined journal she was reading earlier.

"There?"

"Yeah, that's good." Viv smiles at her. "You can look at it if you miss me."

Addison kisses the top of her head. "I always miss you when you're not here."

"I know." Vivian leans against her, then pops back up. "Can I make copies on the machine?" she asks brightly.

…

A warm breeze guides their walk home. Vivian burns off some energy running ahead and then back again, taking her mother's hand.

Addison relishes these times with her daughter, when their respective schedules coalesce sufficiently to allow an afternoon office visit, an early evening walk home together.

She doesn't have to check her blackberry to know that Mark won't be joining them.

Almost unconsciously, she rubs the spot on the back of her hip that's been stinging all day – longer than that, if she's honest. She massages the lump that's formed; she wasn't kidding when she told Jamie it was difficult for everyone.

Vivian talks her first into walking along the park, even though it's out of their way, and then into Italian ices.

"You still have to eat your dinner," Addison reminds her, and is rewarded with a cherry-red lipped smile in return.

They sit side by side on one of the benches dotting the stone walls along the perimeter of the park. It's still light out, golden and glowing – May, not too warm, not too anything. It's frankly beautiful, postcard-perfect, yellow taxicabs alternating with the rest of the cars, city buses chugging along. The park is emanating the warm salty smell of hot pretzels and two corgis on the arm of an elegant older woman stop to sniff at their legs, much to Viv's delight. Wave after wave of people cover the sidewalk, often stopping to remark on the lovely weather.

It's times like these she can't imagine how anyone could leave New York.

It's sunny and warm, spring announcing itself, Viv cheerful enough to forget some of the sadness of the last few months.

The disappointments.

She reminds herself that they're starting again, that it will be different this time.

"Here, Mommy."

Vivian offers her a bite and Addison accepts it, more to please her daughter than because she's interested in Red Dye Number 6. The little wooden paddle tastes exactly the same as the ones she remembers from when she was a girl. The city has changed in some ways in the intervening four decades; Italian ices haven't changed.

"Is Daddy coming home for dinner?"

"He's working tonight," Addison says, smiling down at her daughter and, over her protests, cleaning some of the red stain from around her mouth. "Hold still, sweetheart."

Holding still is not Viv's forte.

"Ready?" Addison stands, holding out her hand.

Vivian pauses, maybe calculating her next step.

"We'll pick up sushi on the way," Addison offers.

"Call it in first," Viv suggests, a city child through and through, and Addison does so as they walk hand in hand down the sunny sidewalk.

…

The sushi is delicious – "it won't keep," she tells her daughter when Viv asks if they can put some of the leftovers in the refrigerator for her father.

It's not petty if it's true.

"Needa says people waste a lot of food," Viv announces.

"Yeah?" Addison is tying a plastic bag tightly around the paper one to contain the strong smell of soy sauce. She counts to five before answering. "She's probably right."

Viv just hops down from her stool, unbothered, pausing to pat her wooden days of the week calendar. She switches the day each morning, but it seems to be a battle of self-control for her daughter some nights not to do this beloved part of her routine in advance. Addison watches her little fingers trace the _Wednesday_ sitting on the frame.

"What's Daddy going to eat for dinner?" Viv asks, turning back to her mother.

 _His pride._

"He'll find something. Don't worry, I won't let him starve," she assures her daughter when she frowns.

"Can we read now?" Viv asks.

Addison checks the time. "In a few minutes," she says. "Why don't you go get the – "

"No, I want to stay with you!"

So they walk up the stairs together, Viv's little fingers holding tight to her hand. Guilt throbs along with her injection site; she cuddles her daughter close to soothe both the guilt and the child, and they read half of a chapter while she holds the ice pack to the sore spot on her hip. Alternating sides hasn't made much of a difference this time, though she still advises her patients to do the same.

Vivian's been her shadow since the day she doesn't like to think about, so she's not surprised that she follows Addison into the bathroom off their bedroom and climbs onto the white chaise to watch her.

"Does it hurt?" Viv asks as Addison warms the oil, her small forehead wrinkled with concern.

 _Yes._

"Just a little pinch," she lies, readying the needle.

"But I don't like shots," Viv says, climbing up to her knees on the chaise.

"I don't think anyone likes shots, sweetheart, but sometimes people need them."

"For babies," Viv says in a knowledgeable tone. There's a pause where she knows her daughter is thinking about her _other_ daughter, and she's about to intercede when Viv speaks again: "Did you have shots when I was in your belly too?"

"No."

"How come?"

"I didn't need them," Addison says simply.

"But why?"

Addison considers the question. There's a line she tries to walk, not oversharing with her daughter, but Viv is the daughter of two surgeons and her normal would probably make most people squeamish, so…

"The medicine is something that moms make in their bodies when they're pregnant," she says. "If they don't make enough, they take shots."

She winces internally at what the mentor for whom her daughter was named might say if she heard that explanation.

"You made enough when I was in your belly?"

"Yes. I was younger then," Addison says as she sees her daughter's lips part to ask the inevitable follow-up.

She doesn't have to wonder what Mark would think of this conversation, and she feels a pang of guilt followed by an unflattering frisson of _I told you so._ He could come home, instead of being annoyed with her – what does he expect her to do when she's alone with Vivian, not take the drugs?

Vivian looks worried. "Is the medicine working?"

"It's doing what it's supposed to do, sweetheart."

With Vivian staring, she finds her hand hovering over the needle, the other poised at the waist of her yoga pants. It's not the exposed flesh that bothers her; while she hasn't bathed with Vivian since she grew from toddler into little girl, it's still no more than she might show in a swimsuit.

 _You think a needle will scare her, after …?_

But she doesn't want to finish the sentence. Doesn't let herself.

Viv is getting harder to distract, and without Mark here to pry her away... . "Vivi, can you do me a favor and grab the heating pad? It's in my office."

Viv looks torn. She avoids being in a separate room now.

"I'll talk to you the whole time," Addison promises, and Viv consents with this addendum. Addison keeps her word, and by the time Vivian returns from the room down the hall where Addison sat on that very heating pad last night to finish charting, the injection is finished.

…

It's still warm enough to leave the windows open to the spring breeze. She lets Vivian take her bath in her parents' bathroom tonight, where the massive tub dwarfs her small body and she can swim with delight from one end to the other.

Vivian has always loved the bath – any body of water, really, she's been their mermaid from the day she was born. A bath was always guaranteed to soothe her. Now, with her reluctance to be separated, Addison has taken to spending the time with her, sitting on the hassock in Viv's bathroom while her daughter splashes in the tub or, tonight, sitting on the heating pad on the big white chaise in her own bathroom, attempting to divert the conversation from her single-minded daughter's topic of choice.

"More bubbles, Vivi?"

"No. I'm good." Vivian lifts a handful of bubbles – they smell light and citrusy and, with a mischievous smile, she blows a few of them toward her mother.

"Just once," Addison reminds her. "Keep the rest of the bubbles in the tub."

Vivian splashes her wordless agreement, then sticks her pink-painted toes out of the water. It's the kind of indulgence Addison's own mother would never have allowed – the word _trashy_ comes to mind, but it was Vivian's idea as much as her preferred casual dress, and Addison relishes letting her make those choices.

"Want me to keep reading?" Addison asks.

Viv nods, then shouts _No!_ when Addison starts to stand up. "Don't go in the other room," she pleads.

"But the book is other room, Vivi," Addison says carefully, keeping her tone calm.

 _The smallest steps first,_ that's what the therapist advised. _Let her see that if she comes back, you'll still be there._

"Then I _don't_ want to read," Viv retorts. "Mommy – "

"Okay, it's okay. I'm staying." Addison sinks back down on the chaise and Vivian calms accordingly.

Addison's about to offer to tell her daughter a story instead when Viv returns to her topic of the evening.

"The new baby's _not_ in you yet, but almost. Right?"

Addison studies her daughter. Viv's hair is piled on her head to keep it out of the water. It makes her look older, and Addison has to blink for a moment. She's already growing up so fast. She and Mark used to joke when Viv was a baby, and then a passionately emotional toddler, that it would be nice to know what she was thinking. And then she learned to talk – and talk, and talk – and they get to hear what she's thinking. She's never going to get tired of it. It's just ...

"Right," Addison says carefully.

" _And_ it's a boy," Viv says. "Right?"

She's right again. The same tests that reassured them the embryos were strong enough for transfer left no secret of their sex. There are patients – Addison's treated plenty of them – who still, after all the grueling and graphic work involved in IVF, still want to retain the mystery of whether the embryo will produce a male or female child. It's touching, really, the innocence of it.

Addison, though, had already had enough surprises.

"Did you know _I_ was a girl?"

"Not right away." Addison smiles at her daughter. "But I thought you were, and so did Daddy."

Neither of them was surprised when their hunch was confirmed.

Vivian leans back in the tub, wriggling her little toes just out of the water again.

"Are you cold, Vivi? You want some more hot water?"

She shakes her head vigorously, the pile of dark-blonde hair wobbling.

"Okay." Addison curls her legs underneath her, reaching back to massage the injection site. Any hope of keeping Vivian from learning about their progress too early was mostly lost two cycles ago.

"But … he won't be here for my birthday," Viv says thoughtfully.

"No. Not this year, not until …" Addison says, stopping herself from saying _February_ , from naming the date, as if she hasn't already marked it on the calendar.

"So he'll be here for my _next_ year birthday. When I'm seven. Right?"

Addison glances automatically toward the closed bathroom door that's keeping the large room steamy and warm. "Viv … let's, um, let's talk about something else, sweetie."

"How come?" Viv tilts her head. "Daddy's not here."

There's a hollow in the pit of her stomach at her daughter's words. She was never going to do this – keep secrets, let Viv keep secrets, and she hasn't.

Not really.

The problem is that Vivian's smart; she's picked up on things Addison never told her explicitly.

Which makes her feel worse, really.

"Because … you haven't told me about the rest of your day at school," Addison says, relieved to hear her voice sounds far steadier than she feels. "You told me about reading … and recess … but what about French?"

"We did our postcards," Viv responds immediately, apparently sufficiently distracted, and then Addison is treated to the details of the pen pal project her daughter's class has undertaken with a sister school in France. "And Madame said mine was good. It has a bus on the front."

"City bus or school bus?"

"City," Viv says. "And Juliette's gonna send me one with a picture of something too. Like from where she lives."

Addison offers the appropriate amount of excitement at this news and Viv splashes appreciatively.

"We're supposed to tell them stuff like … where we live and what we like to do." Vivian pauses, looking like she has a delightful secret. "Hey, Mommy … you know how to say _tennis_ in French?"

She does, but she shakes her head, enjoying her daughter's eager smile.

"Tennis!" Viv beams. "You spell it the same and everything."

…

Addison and Vivian are both asleep when he gets home, and he pauses at the end of the entry hall of their bedroom just to watch them for a moment.

His wife is half-sitting up against the headboard, and there's a small stack of charts on the antique nightstand next to her. She must have thought she could work more after Viv fell asleep. Vivian is curled up next to her mother, her long hair spread out over both of them.

Addison blinks as he approaches, starting to rouse.

"Hi," he says quietly, knowing she'll be fully awake in just a few more blinks. He leans over to kiss her; she feels warm from sleep.

"You want me to …?" He gestures toward their sleeping daughter.

"Yeah." Addison nods, stretching what must be a crick in her neck and smoothing Viv's hair. "You'll do the – "

"Of course." He leans over Addison to lift his daughter, feeling every one of his forty-four years at the strain of the position and hoping it doesn't show. Mercifully, this time his careful movements help Vivian stay asleep.

… until the hallway, where she wakes despite his best efforts, but she snuggles close without protest as he carries her to her room.

"Daddy," she murmurs as he sets her down on her bed.

"I'm right here. Go back to sleep, baby." He draws the covers over her.

She blinks sleepily and seems to want to say something else, but her eyes slide shut. Mark stays with her for a moment to make sure she's asleep, then dims the light and sets the alarmed door.

Just in case.

...

THURSDAY

Mark relieves Needa the next night, beating Addison home by what he hopes won't be much time. Then again, if she's avoiding him, like she was this morning, taking early call and leaving breakfast duties to him …

Viv, who misses nothing, seems to pick up on the tension, twining around his legs as he tries to hang up his coat and asking him multiple times when her mother will be home.

 _In time for her shots. That's what matters. Everything else is a crapshoot._

"I don't know, Viv," he tells her as patiently as he can, for the third time.

She trails him to the kitchen. "Daddy … it's Friday tomorrow, right?"

He nods, starting to regret the maple wood days of the week calendar they bought her for Christmas. She likes replacing it each day with the current one, and it's mostly cured her of her tendency to refer to every day as either _tomorrow_ or _yesterday._ It sits in the kitchen now, mocking him.

"And then Saturday," Viv recites. "And _Saturday_ we're going to the house. Right?"

He massages the bridge of his nose where a tension headache is gathering.

"Probably," he says, hoping to forestall an argument like the one he and Addison had when they talked about the weekend.

 _I'm not saying no to driving out there, I'm just saying maybe. I won't know until after the transfer. They might need –_

 _So we can't make any plans, ever, just in case?_

 _Mark, that's not fair,_ she responded, and the quiver in her voice hit him in the gut with guilt.

Vivian's face falls. " _Probably_ means no," she scowls.

"No, it doesn't. It means probably." He turns her in the direction of the sink. "Wash your hands," he directs.

"But Mommy said – "

"Viv, enough," he cuts her off, regretting his short tone when she turns wounded eyes up to him.

"Sorry." He rests a hand on her head, his own version of ruffling when his daughter's hair is far too long for actual ruffling. When she's dried her hands, he lifts her up to sit on the island, studies her face for a moment. She's prettier than he was, to be certain, but he'd be lying not to recognize the way her blue eyes squint with her broad smiles, the freckles on her upturned nose. He toys with one of her long braids.

"Can we have sushi for dinner?" she asks, her pout resolving.

"Didn't you have sushi last night?"

"Yeah." She pulls her other braid over her shoulder to study the end of it. "But it was good."

"No concerns about the mercury, huh?"

"Mercury is in thermometers," she informs him.

"Then I guess you shouldn't eat those either."

She gives him a quarter-smile suggesting she appreciates his attempt at humor, and then pulls her legs up underneath her, criss-cross applesauce.

"I'm hungry," she says.

Viv is guaranteed to be hungriest outside of mealtimes. "Have a snack," he suggests. "We're waiting for Mommy to order mercury."

Vivian gives him a half-smile this time. "Ice cream," she says.

"Nice try." He points to the hanging wire baskets of fruit. "How about an apple?"

"No. Carrots," she proposes, "and almond butter."

A whole generation of kids afraid of the peanut. Viv has no allergies, other than bedtime. The vegetable drawer yields only a paper bag of thick, unwieldy carrots with long green leaves at the top. They look like they belong in one of Viv's old, brightly colored picture books.

"What happened to those little carrots that are already peeled?" He shifts a package of portabella mushrooms.

"Needa says peeling carrots is good for you," Viv says.

"Oh, yeah?" He withdraws his head from the refrigerator.

"Uh-huh." Viv nods. "She says people _rush, rush, rush_ too much."

Mark considers this as he selected a few carrots from the brown paper bag, rubbing his thumb over their unpleasant outsides.

Vivian is watching him, her chin resting in her hand.

"Peeling is good for you, huh?" he confirms.

His daughter nods again.

"Okay, then." He roots in the drawer for the peeler. Viv is still watching him; he makes a silly face at her and gets another half-smile in return.

"Want to know what Olive did in Math today?" she asks after a moment.

He gestures for her to scoot further up the island, then hands her the peeler and two thick carrots.

"You know I do," he says, and he's rewarded this time with a full smile and the opening to a complicated story that's punctuated with enthusiastic peeling.

…

Mark plays checkers after dinner with his daughter, for whom board games sometimes devolve into contact sport. She's fairly subdued, for her, and he lets her win twice before, confident that Addison has finished her injections, he ushers Viv upstairs for her bath.

"I want to use _your_ tub," Vivian says, pulling Mark with her into their bedroom and then grabbing Addison's hands. "Please?"

"Not tonight," Mark says before Addison can answer. He massages the tight muscles at the back of his neck. "Daddy needs to take a shower."

He closes the bathroom door, leaving Vivian's protests to her mother. What he really needs is the gym, or at least a run, but he's not eager to see how that would go over tonight. He settles for the free weights he keeps in one of the bedroom closets, pushing himself until his muscles are quivering with exertion instead of stress.

Hot water pounds his back, his shoulders, when he finally takes the shower that kept Viv from her preferred bathtub. It's quiet when he pokes his head out into the hall, just the occasional low murmur of his wife's voice from Viv's room, reading.

Their daughter will go to sleep soon, and then it's going to start all over.

Sure enough, the first thing Addison says, after Mark asks if Vivian went down is, _my lining looked good this morning._

He doesn't respond.

"Thanks for asking," she adds. Her voice is neutral, pleasant even, but he hears its undertone.

He can't hold it against her. Two years of hormonal highs and lows as she attempted time after time to trick her body into completing a pregnancy. Sometimes it's not clear how much of what she says is _her_ , and how much comes in little ridiculously priced glass vials

"Addison…"

"They'll go ahead tomorrow." She's looking past him, rubbing unconsciously at the injection site. He flexes his own hands. He could offer a massage, but he doesn't.

"Mark. They're doing the transfer tomorrow."

"You just told me."

She blinks, then picks up her hairbrush from the top of the dresser. "Eleven o'clock. Are you coming?"

"I have to work, Addison. The world can't stop every time you – " He closes his mouth at the hurt on her face. "I'm sorry." He is - sorry that she's hurt, anyway, even though he knows it doesn't help. Not really.

"No, you're not. Not about the right things," she adds.

He can't deny it, she knows him too well; she just shakes her head at him, disappointment dripping from her voice. "Mark ... when did you stop wanting this?"

 _When you started wanting it enough for the both of us._

 _More than enough._

 _Too much._

He doesn't say that; he couldn't.

He _could_ say, _I do want it._

But he doesn't say that either.

"You're still angry?" She shakes her head at his silence, starting to draw the brush through her hair and pausing. "These are the last two, Mark. This is it."

"I know."

"But you still - " she stops again. "I did two transfers this morning," she announces. "Farrah did three."

He waits for the arrow to land.

"Guess how many husbands showed up?"

"Five," he guesses without inflection, attempting to take some of the wind out of her gathering sails.

"Four, actually," she says. "The fifth one was a wife. But they were all there. They all showed up."

He doesn't respond.

"Mark..."

"How many times before that did they show up?" he asks, rounding on her angrily when she says his name one more time. "Those four husbands, and the one wife. How many times did they have to pick up the pieces when – "

"Don't you dare throw that in my face." She spins around with the hairbrush still in her hand, her face dark.

"I'm not throwing anything in your face."

"That's right. You're not doing anything at all." Her voice is cold.

"Drop it, Addison." He massages the back of his neck, where his muscles have clenched up again, hearing his voice rise despite himself.

"There are only two more. Tomorrow's transfer, and that's it. If you don't come …"

"If I don't come then what?" He doesn't bother to keep the anger out of his tone now, sees the moment she decides not to cross another line, and switches tactics instead.

"These are _our_ babies, Mark." Her tone is soft, imploring. He sees her waking up white-faced in a hospital bed, already knowing but making him tell her anyway. " _Our_ babies," she repeats. "Don't you want – "

"They're not fucking babies!"

She flinches visibly at the volume of his voice.

Any hope of rescuing the conversation is gone. He strides past her, pulling open the bedroom door only to see his daughter standing just over the threshold in her planet-printed pajamas, hair mussed from sleep, tears in her eyes.

"Vivi." Mark reaches for her, regret souring his stomach, but she's already run into the bedroom and is clinging to Addison.

"You woke me up," she whimpers.

"We didn't mean to," Mark tells her, stroking her hair as Addison, sitting on the end of the bed, holds their daughter flush against her and rocks slowly back and forth like she used to when she was small.

"Why were you yelling?" Viv asks, half-asleep again already, all ten fingers knotted in the fabric of Addison's robe.

"We weren't. We were just talking," he says, adding _lying to my daughter_ to his list of misdeeds for the night.

He sits on the bed behind Addison so all of Viv's weight isn't pushing against her, but she doesn't seem to mind. It's not long before their daughter's head is lolling with sleep.

"Let's just keep her in here," Addison says, gesturing to their large bed.

Mark doesn't protest – not that his wife asked for his approval or even his buy-in, and their daughter's warm sleepy body is the barrier between them that night.

…

FRIDAY

"Good luck," he says.

"I wish you meant that," she responds without turning around. The kitchen smells like espresso and the light citrus scent of her perfume. Her hair is pinned up severely, exposing the nape of her neck.

He would ordinarily find the exposed skin irresistible; now, it just looks as angry as she does.

"Addison …" He massages the bridge of his nose.

"Forget it." She turns around, gesturing at the breakfast nook, where Viv is kneeling on the cushion and eating cereal out of a pink mug. She carries her mug to the sink without being told, and after washing her hands she carefully replaces the _Thursday_ block with the _Friday_ one and nods with satisfaction.

Addison waits until their daughter has left the room, pushing the kitchen door open with both hands, before she turns back to Mark.

"Needa's taking Viv," she says, fiddling with her phone like it's any other morning's shared logistics plan, and he doesn't respond.

"Mark." She rests a hand on his arm. "About last night …"

"Forget it," he says. He's too tired to argue – Viv slept fitfully through the night and he's pretty sure he has bruises from her little feet.

"This is the last transfer," she repeats in a low voice.

He studies her face for a moment, its beseeching expression, unable to resist pushing her a little. "So you'll stop, you mean? After this one?"

Hurt flickers in her eyes at his insinuation. " _If_ it doesn't work," she says quietly, "then we'll … deal with it."

"Deal with it, like move on with our lives, have a nice summer with the kid we actually have … or deal with it like some – other thing?"

He doesn't say the words but he knows the other options.

She doesn't meet his eyes.

"Viv wants to go to the house," she says. "Drive up tomorrow and spend the weekend."

"I know that."

"Will you come?"

"Of course I'll come. I want to go," he says, stressing the _I_ slightly and perhaps a bit unfairly to remind him that he's not the one who made their plans fragile.

When he kisses her goodbye, she holds onto him longer than a typical morning and he lets her.

…

He thinks about her the entire morning.

There's not a day he doesn't think about her anyway, there hasn't been, not since long before it was appropriate to do so.

He keeps glancing up during his office hours and catching the eye of the photograph on his desk. There's a glass of wine in her hand in the full shot, and he teased her about it when she wanted him to crop it. He didn't mind, not really, there are fewer distractions this way, just those incredible eyes focused directly on him.

 _Focus._

It's a buzzword for them really – he wants to focus on them, the two of them, the three of them. Wants the summer stretching out golden and slow, to take some time to be a family. You can't heal without time, can't breathe without exhale.

…

"Any tenderness?"

"For the last two years," Addison says, as if it's a joke, but she flinches slightly under practiced hands.

"I remember." Claudia – a casual friend, they were fellows together – smiles sympathetically as she continues the exam. Addison remembers she has IVF twins at home. Of course she does, because they both _waited_ for the right time.

The fluorescents buzz faintly in the silent room.

"What is it?" Addison props herself up on her elbows. "Claudia?"

"Probably nothing," the other doctor says. "But just to be cautious …."

…

 _I'm in Claudia Gerber's office on 63rd, if you can get away for a few minutes_ , she types with shaking fingers.

…

"I'm scheduling you right now, Addison. But let me just get Feldenstein on the line so he can weigh in."

…

 _Mark … I'm sorry about last night. If you're not with a patient, can you please come?_

…

"I know you say this all the time, but it really is true, isn't it? There's nothing we can do this second, so it's important to stay calm until we know more."

"Right."

"If you want to wait..."

But there is no waiting. There's no re-freezing the embryos. It's now or never.

"Go ahead with the transfer," Addison says, her eyes tracking the framed print hanging on the opposite wall of the exam room.

…

 _Forget it. I'm already gone._

…

She goes back to work.

Of course she goes back to work.

 _If all else fails, go back to work._

She leaves with phone numbers and promises and platitudes. They all know her, which makes her wish for a moment she'd worn a disguise and gone to … somewhere where they don't know her.

"Is everything all right, Doctor?"

"Everything's fine, Sharon." Addison smiles at the nurse. "I have a full roster this afternoon, so I'll just – "

"Of course. The first chart is on your chair."

There's a little pink handprint on her desk, glazed clay, that Viv made for her in preschool. She can't recall ever doing something like that herself but she does remember, years ago, during her first marriage, seeing five different glazed clay handprints hanging in her mother-in-law's den, one for each child. They looked much like this one.

Not that much has changed.

The hand is already impossibly tiny – Viv sometimes places her larger hand on top of it, when she's visiting the office, and laughs like she's Goldilocks and it's _too small._

Addison traces its imprints now. So tiny she practically outgrew it while the kiln fired it into permanence. To make sure it would be remembered.

 _Remember_ is a word she can't consider right now. Summoning the combination of medical and etiquette training that hasn't failed her yet, she forces down everything she doesn't want to face and opens her first patient's chart.

Gisele. 42. Gravida 3, para 1. Now twelve weeks, three days, too high risk for transfer to an OB. Addison's partner got the patient pregnant, and now Addison will make sure the life sustains all the way to parity and that no one in her office ever says, _do you really need another one?_

Last time Gisele was here, she showed Addison photos of Hugo, her first. Her eyes were sad, like she wanted reassurance that the laughing toddler didn't need to be _enough._

Who can say, anyway, what _enough_ is?

The buzzer sounds, she stands to greet Gisele as Sharon leads her in, and she puts away any remaining thoughts to lose herself in the patient.

…

 _What is it?_

 _Probably nothing._

"Mommy." Vivian pulls on her hand. "Needa said I couldn't have ice cream."

"Before dinner," Needa corrects, smiling fondly at Vivian, "not an all-out ban."

"Needa's right," Addison says, shrugging out of her light jacket. "Did you eat your dinner, Vivi?"

"No." Viv toys with the end of one of her braids. "Where's Daddy?"

"Working," Addison says, hanging up her jacket. "And you need to eat dinner before he gets home."

She recalls the way she and Mark parted ways this morning. She wasn't exactly surprised when he ignored the texts she sent from Claudia's office – he could have done so on a normal day, even, if he'd been with a patient. His only communication with her that day was short, letting her know he was filling in for a colleague that evening.

The first transfer, Mark was by her side for the procedure, holding her hand as she lay on the table with her knees splayed. He was solicitous afterwards, bringing her food and massaging her tired shoulders, preparing heat and ice for the necessary injections. More than supportive. Excited, even.

A sibling for Vivian – that's why Addison put herself through three stimulation cycles, banking as many normal embryos as she could. She wasn't young, but she was strong.

Healthy.

Carried a full-term pregnancy already.

Vivian is talking to her now, half protest at the idea of eating her dinner and half chatter about her day. Addison is doing her best to listen through the ocean waves in her ears.

"Did you hear me, Mommy?"

"I heard you, Vivi." Addison takes her daughter's small face in her hands.

 _Focus_.

Needa is packing up now, preparing for the changing of the guards. Vivian runs over to kiss her goodbye, her ice cream betrayal apparently forgotten, and then runs back to Addison.

"Dr. Montgomery?" Needa approaches her, speaking quietly above Vivian's head. "Is everything all right?"

"Of course."

"I can stay longer, if you – "

"No, don't be silly. It's fine." Addison smiles briefly at Needa, then reaches for her daughter's hand. "Let's eat," she says. "Mommy's starving."

The salmon and sweet potatoes Viv must have shunned earlier are still sitting on the kitchen island. Addison is too tired for battle; she takes a few cooled bites herself instead, Vivian watching with interest, while she orders food. Their regular places are listed in the phone in order of how fast they deliver, and she's rewarded with a speedy delivery of Chinese food that Viv consents to eat with only token protest.

Now that the food's here, her own appetite diminishes. She praises Viv's ever-improving chopstick skills instead; her sweet husky-voiced chatter fills the kitchen and she lets Viv's stories of her day distract her.

No word from Mark, as she stashes leftovers in the fridge in case he's hungry later, opening the windows to let a fresh breeze wash out the fragrant scents of their dinner.

She offers Viv a movie, not even bothering to feel guilty for resorting to electronic distraction, and her daughter chooses _Mary Poppins_ from the stack in the playroom without a second glance.

"It's your favorite," she reminds Addison, whose throat suddenly feels thick. She gives Vivian a quick squeeze.

"You're right, and it's a good thing I have it memorized," Addison says, smiling at her daughter.

"Oh. You have to work?" Viv asks, climbing onto the couch next to her.

"Just a little, sweetheart." Addison waits for the movie to get underway before she turns her daughter carefully so she's angled toward the television and away from her laptop.

She needs to do some research.

Reach out, make some calls.

Vivian, engrossed in the movie, leans against her, occasionally singing along with the actors.

 _I does what I likes, and I likes what I do…_

"Mommy? How come there's only two kids?" Vivian asks abruptly, turning away from the screen.

"In the movie, you mean?"

Vivian nods. They've been reading the books at night, together – Addison remembering them from childhood as a bit edgier and more whimsical all at once – and Viv was fascinated to find the existence of three more Banks children younger than Jane and Michael.

"I don't know, sweetheart. I guess they didn't have time to include the twins."

"Or Annabel," Vivian reminds her. "But they should have all of them."

"Yeah?" Addison brushes some stray strands of hair off her daughter's face. "Maybe you'll make a new version of the movie when you're older, with all of them."

"Maybe." Viv considers this. "They shouldn't leave out the babies."

Addison holds her breath, waiting for the inevitable transition.

It comes, of course.

"My baby is in there now," Viv is saying, reaching out, "my baby brother." Addison catches her little hand before it can make contact and brings it to her lips instead, planting a kiss on her palm. Viv giggles, protesting that it tickles, before Addison releases her. "He _is_ in there, right, Mommy?" she persists.

Vivian is hard to distract.

She and Mark like to credit each other with their daughter's stubborn determination. In truth it comes from both of them, she knows. They are so alike in so many ways: it is, at it always has been, both the strongest and most fragile aspect of their marriage.

"Vivi…" Addison sets the laptop and stack of papers aside, reaches out and settles her daughter on her lap. Viv nestles close and Addison has a momentary pang at the way her daughter's dark blonde head rests against her breast, as if she's still tiny and nursing. Silently, she strokes her hair, tucking the wispy pieces back into the braid. Viv's hair is long – they compromise on two-inch trims, to keep the split ends away, and she knows this much hair is an indulgence. It's one she was never allowed and one she enjoys granting Vivian, enjoys every moment belonging only to them as she sifts through tangles and brushes chaotic strands into a single shining cape.

Her daughter is looking up at her expectantly – with Mark's eyes, laughing semicircles where Addison's, in pictures at Viv's age, were round and sad. Vivian looks so much like her father; it was a rueful joke, when she was small, when gossip still attended them in hospital halls.

Mark swears he can see her in their daughter, though Addison remains unconvinced it's anything more than sheer affection tinged with wishful thinking. But Addison carried her for forty-one weeks – refusing an induction, confident in her own monitoring skills – birthed her, nursed life into her.

She doesn't need a reflection of her own face to know that Vivian is hers.

"It's, um … I don't know anything yet, sweetheart."

 _God, I really don't know anything. At all._

"But he's supposed to be in there. You took his shots and everything." Viv's voice trails off. "Did he die?" she asks, her tone conversational. The child of two doctors, Vivian could never have been the type to refer to, for example, the smashed pigeon carcass they stepped over crossing Park Avenue as _sleeping_. Still, to be this conversant around _this_ particular issue…. Addison's cheeks flush with the knowledge of what Mark's reaction would be.

"No, baby, he didn't die."

How to explain this bridge of breathless waiting to a five-year-old, even a bright and curious one like Vivian?

She's shown Vivian magnifications of the blastocysts, in an attempt to help her understand, but they've never been anything but _babies_ to her daughter.

"Good," Viv says, turning her face up to her mother with a sweet smile before she refocuses on the movie.

…

The house is quiet by the time he gets home – it always seems so much larger when it's not filled with Vivian's chatter and fleet footsteps. The first floor is darkened but a shadow of low yellow light escapes from under the swinging kitchen door, along with a light breeze.

He steels himself before he goes in.

Addison is sitting at the kitchen island, her back to him, and doesn't turn around when he approaches. He's not surprised.

"Viv's sleeping?" he asks as he approaches. "Addison?"

She turns around then. "I texted you," she says. Her eyes look solidly blue in this light.

He just nods.

"You didn't answer."

"I know," he says finally when she seems to be waiting for a response. Her posture is noticeably stiff; she's angry with him.

It's nothing less than he expected. Maybe than he deserves.

He operates on instinct, in so many moments, couldn't say why he does it, just that he does. Nothing else could explain the cliff he jumped over, the first time he touched her … could it?

Eleven o'clock came and went this morning, and he knew the transfer was underway. Without him. He knew she wanted him there, and he knew he wasn't there.

He doesn't apologize; she wouldn't want to hear it and he's not quite sure it's true anyway.

"How, uh, how did it go?" he asks without looking at her.

She doesn't respond.

"Addison?"

"Mark." She's half turned away now, gestures toward the empty stools beside her. "Sit down."

"Why?" he asks automatically, but when she turns around her face is serious enough that he reaches for one of the stools at the kitchen island.

"Just … sit down," she repeats.

He has the fleeting, instinctual thought, _don't tell me_ , that whatever she's about to say won't be good.

She pushes her hair behind her ears, and he hears her voice shake when she speaks his name. It's enough to push him forward and she doesn't resist when he wraps his arms around her. She's stiff against him but doesn't protest; he tastes fear at the back of his throat as he holds on to her.

And so it is that the words that will change their lives are spoken for the first time directly into the shoulder of his shirt, and he has to move her back, ask her to repeat it, frame the cold skin of her cheeks in his hands, before he understands.

 _He doesn't want to understand._

"Don't flip out," she says. "So they found something, Mark, people find things all the time."

Not on her, they don't. Not on his wife.

She's not meeting his eyes, suggesting she knows more than she's saying.

"And the tests?"

"I'm seeing Luca tomorrow. Remember, he was in –"

"I remember," he cuts her off. "I'm going with you."

He sees her lips part and sees the exact moment she thinks better of making a comment on his absence today. "Okay," she says after a moment and this acquiescence worries him even more.

"Addison…"

"Mark, it's okay."

"I should have been there."

She doesn't say anything.

He could easily tell her he was with a patient, unable to get away. But for some reason, perhaps down to the nature of their relationship, he feels more comfortable hurting her than lying to her. And he knows from her expression that _she_ knows he saw the texts.

"I'm sorry."

"I know," and she rests one of her hands, the one with the rings, against his cheek. For a moment he entertains an urge to grab her and Vivian and get out of here. Just – go. Wherever. Somewhere no one can find them. No one can call and tell them what they don't want to hear.

"Mark, it's okay," she says again, softly. "You know … a little optimism might not be the worst thing right now."

And he watches, with a spreading sense of dread, as her other hand comes to rest on her still-flat stomach.

His own stomach sinks.

"What do you mean?" he asks warily.

She kisses him instead of answering and he responds instead of pushing it, standing without letting go of her. When he lifts her onto the counter, feels the familiar press of her heels against the backs of his thighs, tastes the dip at the side of her neck, it's the first time in months.

His body responds so quickly he feels like a teenager again, in over his head, and she laughs against his lips when she feels his excitement. He's drunk with the permission to touch her, to forget the rest of the world together like they have from the start. Metal gives way between his fingers, turning to silky bare skin, and she arches against him.

 _Stop._

"Stop," she says before his fingers can brush the lace that dips below her navel, as he's been expecting, her dress already unzipped, his palms full of soft skin. She's a little breathless, strands of hair around her face. It's been too long since he's seen her like this, since he's made her feel the way he knows he can.

They're both breathing heavily.

"The transfer… ." Her voice trails off, his eyes on the flushed skin of her chest as it rises and falls with her staggered breathing.

This, he remembers. The two-week hands-off period. The one that somehow bled into two years.

He just says her name, once, and then his head drops. He's suddenly exhausted.

She wraps her arms around his neck. "Don't hate me," she whispers suddenly, fiercely.

He couldn't, even if he tried.

 _Don't make me try_ , he doesn't say.

"Never," he says instead and she holds on more tightly. He didn't even realize there was space left between them.

She takes his hand, her smaller – but not small – one strong as she leads him with increasing force to her bare stomach. He speaks her name again and she ignores him, pressing his palm to her flesh. It's been longer than months since he's done this; she's self-conscious, he knows, about this part of her body, has been since Vivian's birth. As if the part of her where their daughter stretched her flesh, made her first home, could be anything but beautiful.

"Our last ones," she reminds him quietly.

He doesn't respond, just pulls her close, aware this moment of unusual intimacy is over. Physically, anyway, even if his body hasn't quite realized it.

She leans back, looking up at him through lowered lashes.

"Let me …?" she suggests, sounding almost hopeful.

But he covers her hand with his before it can insinuate between their bodies.

"Mark," she sighs. He holds onto her hand and she leans forward to rest her forehead against his for a long silent moment.

"What happens now?" he asks finally, hearing the crack in his voice.

"Now?" Addison leans back, turning her face to look at his. She's very pale in the muted kitchen light, her eyes huge and no color he could identify. "Now … we wait."

"There must be – "

"One step at a time. _Mark._ " She rests her hand on his arm, grips really, and he meets her eyes. They're a hundred miles away, just as they have been after each transfer. Planning, dreaming, _don't get your hopes up_ , that's what everyone says, and everyone also says, _stay optimistic_ , it's a fucking roller coaster and she's still sitting on the island with her legs dangling.

"We'll know more tomorrow," she says, like they might tell a patient's family. "When we see him."

For the same reason she's saying it, he assumes.

She draws him back between her splayed legs, arms tight around his neck with their bodies so closely pressed he can feel her heartbeat against his through the bare skin of her chest. He breathes her in for a moment before he cups the back of her skull, drawing her head to his shoulder. One of her hands grips his neck, the other palming his back. So many points of contact, as his free hand cradles the small of her back.

 _Where do you want me to touch you?_

 _Everywhere._

Those younger versions of themselves mock him from the corners of his memory, Addison's head thrown back, long hair damp with sweat, keening, wanting as much of him as he could give and he's there too – bold, stupid, dizzy with love and lust.

 _There's no going back now._

Not that night, and not tonight.

The buzzing alarm from upstairs interrupts their embrace. They move quickly in tandem, Mark lifting her down from the island with one arm while his other hand seeks out one of the many monitors hooked up to the alarm system.

"What's she doing?" Addison asks breathily, sliding her arms into the sleeves of the sheath he unzipped; automatically, he turns her around to fasten it again.

"Nothing," Mark says.

"Nothing?" Addison reaches for the monitor. "Let me see."

In shades of night-vision green, their daughter is standing in her now-open doorway, long hair loose around her shoulders, in her rainbow-printed summer pajamas turned green and greener by the cameras.

She's just … standing there, and then her small hands rise, slowly, and come to a pause flat against the air.

They watch her for a moment. She's calm, as she is sometimes, like the time Mark found her taking each book off her shelves and splitting it in the middle, then closing it and putting it back, asleep the entire time.

Then she's moving – barely, just infinitesimal movements with her hands flat on nothing, as if she's pushing against a surface no one else can see.

It's a gamble with Viv's sleep disturbances – it's classic walking, sometimes, the last few months – eerie but seemingly not dangerous and still recognizable gestures.

He doesn't know what she's doing now as she continues to press against whatever she seems to think is stopping her from leaving the room.

He sees recognition flicker in Addison's eyes, watches her gaze travel to the swinging door of the kitchen. It has no knob; it's heavy-weighted, to prevent swinging it _into_ someone. An adult can manage with a little extra force; a child would need two hands.

His wife's face changes, her expression resolute. Wiping at her eyes, though he doesn't see anything there, she sets the monitor back down and leaves to go check on Viv. Mark trails her up the stairs, but by the time they get there, Vivian is in bed, sleeping on her back with one arm thrown over her head like she has since toddlerhood. Like she never left her bed.

Like it never happened at all.

Mark resets the alarm, Addison closes the door, and they go to bed like the rest of the night never happened either, silence sliding under the covers with their tired bodies. He waits for her to fall asleep first, and he hears it in the rhythm of her slumbering breath as he follows her:

 _Everything will change._

…

SATURDAY

Vivian wakes them at first light, same as always, kneeling over them still warm from sleep, her long hair brushing the sheets.

There's eager anticipation all over her small face as he drags his tired eyes open.

"We're going to East Hampton!" she announces brightly. "Mommy said," she adds, glancing at Addison when neither parent responds.

 _He'll see us at eleven._

 _Can't it be earlier?_

 _Yes, but I didn't want it to be earlier. I wanted to have some time at home first._

Vivian bounces on her knees on the bed. She's already dressed in shorts and a t-shirt; at least half of Viv's independence is part and parcel of her stubborn nature. She likes to be _ready to go_ so she doesn't miss out. "We _are_ going," she says. "Right?"

"Vivi…" Addison reaches for her and Viv ducks away, scowling.

"You _said_." Her tone is accusatory. "You _said_ we could go."

Addison rests a hand on Mark's arm before he can intercede, perhaps catching the change in his breathing.

"I know, Vivi," she says, gentle and placating. "I'm not saying we can't go."

"So we can go?" Viv brightens. "I want to bring my new racket. The one at the house is like…" Her little hands rise, gesturing to show the apparent imperfections of the strings.

"It's still really early, sweetheart." Addison reaches for Vivian again, successful this time in tipping her forward to lie against her body. Viv resists, briefly, then curls up with her mother.

"But I'm not tired," she protests, warning in her husky voice.

"We're tired," Mark says easily. "We're a little older than you, Vivi."

Vivian's upturned nose wrinkles with confusion. "Daddy … I don't think that's how it works."

Addison doesn't say anything. Her eyes are closed, her cheek resting against the top of Viv's sandy-blonde head. He watches them breathe in sync for a moment, and then it's over.

"Mommy." Viv is wriggling in her mother's arms, trying to get her attention. "Can we get up now?"

And then to Mark's dismay, one of his daughter's small hand drifts down to Addison's midsection, which she pats fondly. "Is he in there?" she whispers, _sotto voce_.

Addison's cheeks flush at her words.

He swallows his annoyance when he sees the expression on her face.

Resolute, he swings his legs out of bed and shuts himself in the walk-in closet long enough to change his clothes.

Addison and Vivian are both sitting up in bed when he returns, startlingly similar expressions on their very different faces.

"Vivi – let's go." He holds out his hands.

"Go where?"

"Bagels," he says, as if the answer is obvious.

Vivian's lips purse. "But you said you're tired."

"So we'll get coffee too." He curls his hands, beckoning. "Come on, Viv."

"Can I have coffee?" she asks hopefully.

"That's the last thing you need." He scoops her off the bed when she still doesn't move, tossing her over his shoulder and making her squeal with surprised approval.

"Mark…"

He turns at the sound of his name, gripping Viv with one hand, expecting Addison to scold him for being rough. _It's horseplay_ , he'll say, _it's what dads do._ It's what Derek's dad did anyway, and that's the only one he had.

But Addison doesn't seem bothered by their daughter, upside down and currently drumming his back with her fists as she recites the litany of treats she's expecting from the bagel place. She's already at _rainbow cookie_ when Mark talks over her.

"Addie … what is it?"

She looks up at him, and it's the angle or the low light but she suddenly looks very young, like how he remembers her in medical school when they'd study all night, and she wanted something. _Can I have one of your highlighters? Can you get me a Tab?_

"Make mine decaf," she says.

He pretends that containing an energetic Viv is the reason he doesn't answer, and not his disappointment.

Their daughter's husky voice is the soundtrack down the stairs, pausing to giggle every time a step pushes his shoulder into her ribs. "Daddy…" she's calling, rapping on his back as they approach the front door.

He pretends he's just noticed he's still carrying her, enjoying her laugh, then sets her on her feet, grabbing both her hands when she looks a little unsteady.

"All my blood is in my head," she observes with interest, then pauses. "Is that a real thing? Needa said it's a real thing … but she's not a doctor."

 _Doctors don't know everything._

He studies his daughter's flushed face. "More or less," he says, smiling at her.

"Oh." Viv stretches her arms out to the side, regaining her balance, then pauses as if she's just remembered something. "Will you play tennis with me?"

"Hm?" He's unlocking the series of bolts Addison insists on at the front door.

"At the house. Will you play tennis with me?" Vivian mimes a forehand, beaming when he assures her he'll play with her.

Then, with a quick sidelong glance at him, she mimes the one-handed backhand she's not allowed with a racket.

"Not like that, I won't."

Viv frowns at him. "Sutton's dad lets her."

 _Sutton's dad sees her maybe once a month._

Not that Mark can blame him for keeping his distance. The whole family gives him the heebie-jeebies, but Sutton's a nice kid and he can't hold her family against her, not with his own history.

"Why can't I, anyway?"

Mark pulls open the front door, a thousand thoughts spinning through his head, and fast and uncontrollable as a tennis ball.

At least the way he plays, the way he used to play.

"Because I don't want you to burn out your rotator cuff before you can vote."

"Wait!" Vivian squeals as he starts to usher her out the door.

"Viv…"

But she's already pushing the kitchen door open with both little hands. He follows her to keep her from dawdling, but all she does is replace the maple wood _Friday_ with _Saturday_. He lets her regard the calendar with satisfaction for a moment before he urges her out of the house.

"Let's go, Vivi."

He tugs on the end of her ponytail when she hovers on the front steps.

Then they debate briefly – but fiercely – over whether she should ride her scooter to the bagel place. Mark wins, and Vivian sulks only as far as the next block.

"I can ride it at the house, though," she says, turning her face up to see Mark, who's holding her by the hand, and squinting a little in the sun. "Today. Right?"

Mark massages the back of his neck with his free hand. Viv and her one-track mind.

 _We don't know anything yet. Maybe I shouldn't even have told you._

 _Of course you should have told me!_

"We'll see," he says, and Viv groans in frustration.

"Mommy has to work," he says when she demands a reason.

She considers this. "Are you staying with me? Can we go to the ancient playground?"

"I don't know, baby, I … need to work too. Mommy's making a playdate for you," he adds quickly.

Viv considers this. "Not Emma P.," she says.

 _Beggars can't be choosers, kiddo._

Her small face is so innocent and hopeful. He forces down the fear that's making him irritable.

"No Emma P., huh? What about Emma J.?" he teases.

"Emma J.'s okay." Vivian reaches for his hand again, her bad mood seeming to dissipate. "But later can we go, Daddy? To the house?"

"I don't know, Viv," he says carefully.

"Tomorrow," she proposes.

Tomorrow feels like a hundred years away.

This feeling of knowing, that today is the first day of something … it clings to the air around him, distracts him from his daughter's chatter.

At the bagel counter, he lets Viv choose sweets without even token protest. She seems to sense his distraction, holding up her arms three blocks from home and telling him she's too tired to walk anymore. It's clearly not true, but he sets her on his shoulders anyway, holding onto her small sneakered feet.

…

"Mommy!"

Vivian runs to her like they've been separated for days, which is undeniably flattering. One of her partners, observing this a few months ago, told Addison to enjoy it while she could – her teenagers barely acknowledged her if they bumped into each other on the street.

 _Enjoy it while you can._

"We got bagels," Viv chatters. "And it's sunny so we can eat outside. _Can_ we eat outside?"

Addison glances automatically toward the back garden, the small table and chairs partially hidden by the wrought iron archway. Leaves climb the swirls of it. Flowers will blossom there, eventually.

"Sure," she says, enjoying Viv's delight – which she knows won't last long once she realizes a trip to the Hamptons house this weekend is looking very unlikely.

"You going to change first?" Mark tugs her gently toward him by the sash of her blue silk robe, and she enjoys his tone too, light and teasing.

"Maybe," she says, kissing him quickly when he laughs.

"Mommy." Vivian frowns at her. "You're wearing _pajamas._ "

Addison is amused by how scandalized her daughter sounds, like a direct line from the grandmother she's met only half a dozen times

"You're right. I'll go change. You two set up, okay?"

Vivian is already halfway out the door. Addison pauses to pull Mark in for one more kiss.

"I thought you liked this robe," she murmurs in his ear, pleased when she can feel him swallows hard.

"You're a tease." He smiles down at her when she pretends to be offended, his thumbs stroking the silk lapels next to her throat. "Go get dressed before Viv reports you for indecent exposure."

She does, but she pauses halfway up the wide staircase, hearing the voices of her family in the kitchen and outside – Mark's rumbling and low, Viv's husky but childishly-pitched. They both laugh at something she can't hear.

 _We don't know anything yet._

One of her hands slides down her blue silk robe to rest on the spot where Vivian grew. Where Julian grew, until he didn't. Where the next two never did. Where Faith grew, until she didn't. Where the two after that never did.

 _And now we wait._

"Mommy! Are you ready yet?" Viv's voice is closer now, like her little face is pressed up against the leaded windows. There's anticipation in her voice – joy, even.

"Almost," she calls, and ascends the rest of the stairs so she won't have to keep her daughter waiting any longer than necessary.

* * *

 ** _I think I could write another 44-chapter story just about the Sloans in this universe. It's been a gradually rougher couple of years for them - it wasn't all fluff before Addison's diagnosis, but I have to admit I love exploring their life together before they were reintroduced to Derek and his perspective. Reviews are love, and my fingers are tired, so I hope you will write and let me know your thoughts. Next chapter picks up after the bombshell that ended Chapter 43. Thank you for reading!_**

 ** _PS Yes, there is a song called Everything Will Change, but I admit to cheating a little because I can't help but think of the line in Postal Service's Brand New Colony - that song has always reminded me of Mark and Addison._**


	45. the trapeze swinger

**A/N: Thank you so much for your feedback on the last chapter. I promise I wasn't trying to be mean with a cliffhanger followed by an interlude. I felt like that interlude added something and now we're back on the main storyline track. This is one of those chapters where even though I knew what was coming, it still ended up surprising me a little. I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

 _the trapeze swinger  
_...

* * *

 _She's awake._

At first, Derek thinks he must have misheard. Addison, awake? When Mark's last report was basically a farewell?

But Meredith is looking at him encouragingly; Mark is standing rooted to the floor where shards of broken glass surround his feet.

"She's awake?" Derek repeats, confused.

"She's awake."

Mark is staring, looking like he doesn't believe it himself. The hand holding the phone is shaking.

Everything moves quickly after that, a waiter heading over with a large bin and mop to help them clear up the broken glass. Mark is lifting his daughter out of the way, confirming the glass didn't touch her. Vivian is fending off his concern, just hanging onto her father's hand with her small face wary.

If Mark has more details, he seems incapable of sharing them, still looking shocked.

And then a moment later he seems galvanized, shoving his phone into his pocket. He glances at Derek.

"I need to – "

"Go," Derek says quickly. "We can – "

"Thank you." Mark's face is so pale it's nearly grey. "I'll call as soon as I – "

He stops talking, looking down at Vivian, who's staring up at him. Still looking dazed, he strokes her cheek.

"Mommy's awake?" Viv tugs on his hand. "She's not sleeping anymore?"

Mark's face is still drained of color. Slowly, he nods.

"Can I see her now?"

"Soon." Mark cups her cheek. "You're going to stay – "

Vivian scowls. "You always tell me I can see her soon and you _never_ let me see her."

It's an unfair statement timing wise, perhaps … but it's not illogical. Still, Mark looks stricken. Viv goes quiet and slips her thumb into her mouth.

"This is different," Mark says finally, resting a hand on the top of his daughter's head. "I just need you to be patient, baby, just a little while longer, and I'll come get you."

Viv pulls away. "You always tell me that too," she says.

"Vivi – "

"How long? How much longer?"

"I don't know, baby." Mark's expression is pained. "A couple of hours?" He looks at Derek like the other man might have answers; it's clear Mark has no idea what he'll see when he goes to the hospital. "Soon," he amends, "I promise. But I have to go now."

Vivian doesn't protest any more – her face closes. Far from melting down, or even protesting, she's calm to the point of blankness, letting Mark kiss her hastily goodbye before the heavy glass door slams shut behind him.

"Viv," Meredith says quietly, "do you want to – "

"It's your turn, Zola," Vivian interrupts, talking over her, as she sits back in her seat. She indicates the purple crayon drawing on her paper place mat.

"Yeah, my turn," Zola repeats, pleased, and picks up a pink crayon.

Derek and Meredith exchange a glance.

They pay the bill, hustle both children and Derek's mother back through the heat to the air-conditioned apartment.

The short-term apartment was built for waiting, just a few blocks from the site of his mother's surgery. Easy, efficient.

And that's what they do.

They wait.

…

"What time is it?" Viv asks him again – a dozen repetitions later – and he's reminded of patients waking up from surgery, dazed and attempting to sort out their consciousness.

Vivian has been sweet and patient with Zola since they arrived at the apartment, refusing all attempts to be coddled and instead letting Zola pick out games and hand Viv toys.

Her only indulgences have been her frequent requests to know the time and the status of her father's communication.

Derek tells her the time, and she looks up from the puzzle she and Zola have been fitting together on the floor. "Will you tell me? If my dad calls?" she asks again.

Her tone is low, even calm, but she's still seemingly vibrating with tension.

"I'll tell you," he assures her.

No word from Mark yet, positive or negative. And no sign whether the silence is positive … or negative.

The temporary apartment feels small; they're three on two, Derek's mother seeming content to watch the two girls play.

Zola drapes a purple boa over Vivian's shoulders; she agrees with the younger girl that it's _beautiful_ , then looks up anxiously at Derek.

"What time is it?" she asks, and he tells her.

And then he leaves his phone with Meredith to avoid Viv's nervousness about Mark's call and ducks out of the building, down the humid street into the bodega. He doesn't miss much about New York but he might miss corner shops selling everything from overpriced candy to overpriced – "that one," he says, pointing. Silently praying his mother won't ever find out its cost, he accept a vaguely dusty plastic bag along with a pretextual carton of juice.

…

"Where'd Derek go?" Viv asks.

"To the store." Meredith smiles at her.

"Oh." Viv picks up a puzzle piece and turns it over in her little hands. "What if my dad calls?"

"Derek left his phone with me, remember?" Meredith shows it to Vivian. "If your dad calls, I'll pick up. We won't miss it."

This seems to satisfy Viv, at least through the construction of a bright yellow corner of the puzzle.

"Sun, sun," Zola chants happily. "Vivi, find the green. Find green _please_ ," she adds, with a quick glance at her mother, her face nothing less than angelic.

Derek returns quickly, but Zola still greets him at the door like a returned soldier, clinging joyfully to his leg. He walks back to the living room with his daughter still attached, making her giggle. Vivian is still sitting on the floor with the girls' joint puzzle.

"Daddy has a bag," Zola reports. She points to a plastic bag dangling from her father's hand.

"I do indeed have a bag." Derek detaches his daughter gently, long enough to put the juice in the fridge, and then returns.

"Is it gummy bears?" Zola asks hopefully, pointing at the bag again as he kneels down on the floor.

"No. But you still have gummy bears from your aunt," he reminds her with a smile, "for _after_ dinner."

He turns to Vivian, slipping his hand into the plastic bag.

"Actually, it's for you."

"For me?" She looks puzzled.

Derek nods, holding out the package.

Vivian looks intrigued. "It's a stopwatch," she guesses slowly, turning it around.

"And a regular watch too," Derek says. "It shows the time. See? So you'll know what time it is."

"It has regular numbers," she says approvingly, "I'm not good at hands." She pulls a little at the plastic sealing the digital watch, then hands it to Derek for assistance.

After the ordeal of retrieving the watch from its sharp packaging, Derek opens the black rubber strap – it's a flimsy thing, manufactured cheaply even if its sale price was ridiculously inflated – and Vivian holds out one skinny arm obligingly. On the last notch, she still has to push the watch halfway up her forearm. It slides down, anyway.

Vivian studies the watch's plastic surface, moving the strap around on her wrist and then looking again.

"Hey, Viv?"

She looks up at Derek's words.

"What time is it?" he asks.

Vivian almost seems like she's going to smile. She checks the device on her wrist and tells him.

Meredith catches Derek's eye as he stands up, prepared to throw out the plastic bag before Zola attempts to play with it.

And then Derek sees Meredith and his mother exchange a glance. Sensing his mother is about to stand up, he goes to her side, offering her his arm. She takes it without complaint, and they walk into the kitchen together.

"Mom?" Surprised, he notices tears in her eyes. "What is it?"

"Nothing, dear." His mother pats his arm. "I'm just proud of you," she says when Derek continues to look at her curiously. "That's all. You're a good boy and I … I don't get to see you enough."

Despite the oddity of being called a _boy_ when he's nearer fifty than forty, he simply nods. "It's good to see you too," he says, and his mother smiles softly.

"Derek," she says after a moment, her voice low. "Is Addison ... does waking up mean she's going to recover?"

"I don't know any more than you do."

"You're a doctor," she reminds him. "Can she come back from this?"

Derek considers what he knows about Addison's illness, her treatment thus far, the respiratory crisis that landed her in Schuyler Hill and left her in critical care.

As with everything Sloan-related, he has more questions than answers. And the more he learns, the more he realizes he has yet to find out.

"I don't know, Mom," he says. "I just don't know. I'm sorry."

"So am I," his mother replies. Her eyes look misty again, and she reaches up one hand to pat his cheek like she did when he was small. "That poor child," she murmurs, and based on her faraway expression he's not sure if she means Mark, Addison, or Vivian.

Frankly, it could describe any of them.

…

The temporary apartment descends into a sort of tense calm – an oxymoron, yet it feels fitting. The children play nicely together, Viv indulgent of Zola's younger and more dominant play style. And Vivian doesn't ask the time again, not out loud. She does check her new watch frequently, sometimes pausing to show it to Zola, who insists on tapping its screen and murmuring _iPad_ – which is quite a compliment considering the watch in question.

Derek's mother drinks a cup of tea, retires to freshen up, and Meredith tempts both girls with a snack of fruit and crackers.

Time ticks on the hands of Derek's watch and flashes from number to number on Vivian's.

Viv and Zola are still playing on the floor when Derek's phone buzzes.

It's a text, not a call, but Viv has already dropped her puzzle pieces to stare. It's a foamy toddler puzzle this time, and Zola grabs the pieces Vivian dropped and squishes them together happily.

"Is it my dad?" Viv asks as soon as Derek sets down his blackberry. "Is he coming to get me?"

"It's your dad. And he says that Amy's coming to get you," Derek reports, not sure how Vivian will take the change of plans.

The eager expression drops off Viv's face.

"I think your dad is with – "

"I _know_ ," Viv cuts him off, looking irritated, and he stops talking.

"Do you want some help getting your things together?" Derek asks, already knowing the answer.

"No, thank you," Viv responds politely before stalking across the living room. She shuts the door to the junior bedroom much harder than necessary, and Derek is left thinking that sums up the two sides of her personality fairly efficiently.

"Where's Vivi?" Zola asks after a few moments.

"Packing," Derek says, feeling a bit like they're ripping a bandaid off. But they might as well start somewhere.

"Why?"

"Aunt Amy's coming over," Derek tells his daughter. He lifts Zola onto his knee. "To get Vivi, and then we're going to take a bath and maybe read some books."

Meredith is impressed by the way he sandwiches Vivi's departure between two neutral pieces of news, like he's delivering an unpleasant prognosis to a patient.

"But I want my _ducks_ ," Zola says fretfully. "All my ducks."

"In the bath?"

She nods, her lower lip trembling.

"We'll put in all the ones we have," Derek assures her.

"No, all my ones. My _other_ ones."

"Those are at home," Derek reminds her gently. "In Seattle. And you'll see them soon."

Very soon.

The day after tomorrow soon.

Zola ponders this. She draws a deep, shuddering breath. "I need gummy bears," she says bravely.

"I disagree." Derek kisses the tip of her little nose. "But I'll consider it, if you help us clean up the puzzle."

Their daughter is too young for delayed gratification, Derek is reminded, when Zola seeks tearful refuge in her mother's arms instead of accepting the deal.

Meredith rocks her. "She's just tired."

Derek glances toward the closed door of the junior bedroom.

"Do you think Vivian – "

"I can go," Meredith says, but Zola's outrage at the attempted transfer to her father's arms cancels out that idea.

Derek heads for the hall bathroom first. Vivian has kept her things neatly even for a child much older, her toothbrush back in its little travel case. He scours the surfaces for any more of her things, zips her little dopp kit, and knocks on the door to the junior bedroom.

No answer.

He knocks again, then pushes the door open lightly.

…

Vivian is standing with her back to him, placing something in her canvas bag. She turns around when he enters the room.

"I didn't know if you heard me knock," Derek says diplomatically.

Viv doesn't answer, but she doesn't protest either.

"Do you need any help packing?"

She shakes her head.

"Okay." Derek hands her the dopp kit. She places it in the canvas bag and then fishes under the pillow for her pajamas. He watches her do a surprisingly decent job of folding them.

"Don't forget your panda," he says, tapping the black and white stuffed animal he brought to the Sloans' townhouse what seems like a long time ago.

"I won't." Viv picks the animal up, then sets him down again. "Derek?"

"Hm?"

Vivian is quiet for a moment, studying him. "Zola's grandma is your mom _and_ Amy's mom, right?"

"Right."

"Is your dad Amy's dad too?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, not sure where this is going.

"He's dead," Viv says without inflection, "Amy said."

He doesn't have time to parse whether Amy said it _to_ Viv, or whether it's another conversational snippet not meant for Viv's ears that she's picked up over the last few months – not before she speaks again.

"Do you miss him?" Viv asks.

He's not leaving the room anytime soon, he supposes. Lowering himself slowly, mindful of his knees, he settles on the rug. The metal edges of the small bed press into his spine when he leans back.

"I do miss him," he says carefully.

Viv watches him without speaking.

"Viv … I know it's hard," he begins quietly, but she cuts him off.

"Why is Amy coming?"

He's not sure how to answer.

"My dad said _he_ would come get me. He said I could see my mom," Viv adds, her voice trembling a little. "He _said_ I could."

"I think you can," Derek says after a moment, hoping he's not making things worse. "Your dad just wants to make sure everything's okay first."

He regrets his words almost immediately. _Everything's okay?_ Good luck with that one, Shepherd.

"He said I could see her, before. He said he just needed a little time," Vivian reports, and Derek recognizes the words. "He said it but I didn't get to see her. I _never_ get to see her."

"I think you're going to see her today," Derek says quietly, hoping he sounds reassuring. "I really do, Viv."

She takes the little space-printed pajama top out of her bag, unfolds it, and frowns at it. Then she turns back to Derek.

"Your dad used to be not dead," she says, "right?"

"Right."

Vivian tilts her head, looking pensive. "My mom used to be not sick," she says.

Long moments pass in silence before Viv speaks again.

"But you can be sick, and then not sick. You can't be not dead, after you're dead. Right?"

"Right," he says again. At a loss for words, he roots on the carpet for something to distract him. Vivian didn't bring any toys, and she doesn't strike him as the kind of child who would leave things around on the floor, but – his daughter is, and his hand doesn't come up empty.

"Sometimes, you're sick and then you're dead," Viv continues. He can't read her expression. "Or you're just dead instead of being born."

He looks down at the toy he's holding in his palm – it's a fuzzy little grey raccoon, part of one of Zola's animal sets.

"Did you see my mom?" Vivian asks abruptly.

Derek shakes his head. "Not since you did, Viv. Not since the other hospital."

"Meredith saw her." Viv pauses. "Meredith said she wasn't dead."

"She wasn't," Derek says quickly, relieved to have an actual answer. "She was trying to get better, and she needed some help."

"But I wanted to see her." Vivian refolds the pajama top, returning it to her canvas bag.

"I know you did. Your dad – your dad didn't think she was ready to see you."

"When my baby sister died," Viv says conversationally, picking up her stuffed panda and then setting it back on the bed, apparently deeming it too big for her canvas bag, "my mom was sick. _I_ saw my mom, and nobody else did, except when the men came."

He knows from Mark and Meredith too that Vivian was alone with her mother during her most recent miscarriage, that she was the one to call the paramedics, but hearing it in Vivian's voice is chilling nonetheless.

"That sounds scary," he says.

"It wasn't." Vivian tosses a pair of pajamas into her canvas bag, the lie written clearly on her small face. "It was selfish," she says coolly.

Derek is uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Viv…."

"My dad said maybe my mom shouldn't see me at all."

"He did?" Derek is genuinely surprised, then realizes Mark must not have said it directly to his daughter. Fragments of one of his first conversations with Mark rise to the surface.

 _I threatened her with Viv._ _I told her that if she didn't mind dying and leaving a five-year-old behind then she might as well say goodbye now._

"Uh-huh. 'Cause it's her fault she's sick."

 _I said I wouldn't bring her back._

There's something about packing, it seems, that is opening Vivian up like he hasn't seen her before. With every piece of clothing or personal item she tosses into her bag, more uncensored thoughts slip out.

Her thought process worries him – it's clearly a combination of overheard snippets of conversation and not-quite-six-year-old logic, but it's potent and Viv's jaw is set, making her look difficult to convince otherwise.

"I don't know why he said that," Derek says after a moment. "But I do know that he wants you to see your mom, and he wants your mom to see you."

Vivian doesn't respond, just picks up the little sterling frame last, with its faded capture of her baby self and her comparably young, healthy mother.

"My brother might be dead," she says, still looking at the photograph. "My new brother, I mean. Isaac."

"I don't think he is," Derek says.

"Oh." Vivian places the frame carefully in the front pocket of the canvas bag. "Does my dad know? 'Cause he doesn't want my brother."

"Viv …"

"I'm done packing," she announces, before he can say anything. She points to the canvas bag.

"Good job," he says automatically, a little weakly. He can't help but feel relieved, not sure how much more he can take of Vivian's morbid observations. If they were helping her, if she seemed unburdened by them, that would be one thing, but he doesn't get that sense.

At all.

"Oh," Viv says again, holding up one skinny wrist. "I forgot." She starts to take off the watch.

"It's yours," Derek says. "You don't have to give it back."

"I don't?"

"Nope."

Vivian touches the plastic face with one finger, then looks up at him.

"Thanks," she says, and her crooked half-smile is so much her father's that Derek feels a lump in his throat.

…

Zola has apparently decided that if Vivian is leaving, no one is safe, as evidenced by her tight grip on Meredith's shirt.

She has consented to read a story, and to crunch loudly on a plastic plate of apple slices, and her tears have long since dried on her round cheeks. But she's not letting go – she alternates her grip occasionally, sticky apple juice dripping down the neck of Meredith's shirt.

She's a doctor and a mother, which is convenient: fluids don't bother her.

Meredith glances up occasionally, in the direction of the junior bedroom.

She can't hear anything, but Derek hasn't emerged, which means at least Vivian didn't throw him out. She saw the little girl's expression when she learned it was Amy who would pick her up instead of her father, and Meredith hasn't yet predicted Viv's reaction when Amy arrives.

But it's hard to assume it will be anything good.

She continues reading, all the way to _the end_.

"Again," Zola orders, sniffling a little; she softens her demand with a sticky wet kiss on her mother's cheek.

Obediently, Meredith turns back to the first page.

If only it could be this easy to start over in real life.

…

"It's disgusting out there," Amy announces when Derek opens the door. His sister's dark hair is darker with perspiration, and there are damp spots on her tank top.

"I'll get you some water."

"Get me a portable AC instead," Amy suggests, following him into the kitchen. "Get me the fall."

He'd rather chat about the weather, but he can't keep it up; he lets his sister gulp from a refrigerated water bottle, mumbling her thanks against its plastic mouth, before he speaks.

"How's Jess?"

"…medium," Amy says after a moment. She glances through the open kitchen archway; apparently satisfying herself that the others aren't listening, she continues: "Nancy wanted him in a day program; Steve wanted him to board."

Derek nods. "And you broke the tie?"

"I pretended to agree with Nancy." She smiles a little, ruefully, at Derek's raised eyebrow. "The other way never worked too well, so I thought I'd branch out."

"And?" he prompts. In his experience, Steve was the only person who could talk Nancy into anything.

"And they split the difference." Amy looks less than thrilled with the result. "He's gone all day, comes home at night."

Derek considers this. "What about – "

"The twins? Steve put a deadbolt on their door."

The image is unsettling.

"It's as creepy as it sounds," Amy says bluntly. "Liz and Kathy think Nancy's redecorating, Nancy's this close to losing it, and Steve – "

Derek waits for her to continue.

Amy just shrugs. "He's got to let loose one of these days." She pauses. "And is it just me, or are the twins kind of turning into bit-"

"Amy," he cuts her off, frowning.

"They _are_ Nancy's, so I guess they come by it naturally," his sister muses.

"They're twelve, Amy," he says sharply. "You could have a little compassion."

"I have compassion," she says, the affronted expression on her face recalling her younger self. Amy was always outraged about something, then. _Why do I have to wear all the hand-me-downs? Why does Derek get to walk into town by himself? Why can't I pick the movie?_ It was somewhat endearing, when she was small.

Less so when she channeled her outrage into addiction.

Amy looks tired, now, and he reminds himself too to have compassion. There's a lot he still doesn't know about his sister's life, and about her shifting bond with Mark and Addison and their child, but he does know she's playing unexpected double-duty this summer – attempting to advocate for Jesse in the face of his addiction, and trying to shoulder some of Mark's burden taking care of Vivian.

It's a lot, and he recognizes that.

"I know you have compassion," he says quietly, regretting his earlier tone a bit.

"Nancy doesn't understand addiction," Amy announces instead of responding to his comment. "Which shouldn't surprise me, since she still thinks I crashed your car because I was a spoiled brat, not because I'd snorted half a – ." She breaks off. "Sorry about that, by the way."

He'd rather not remember the twists of metal, Amy's screams, the days afterward when they tried to force her to seek treatment.

Nancy and Amy, though.

 _That's dumb, we already have enough kids,_ Nancy scowled when she found out their mother was expecting Amy. She was sent to her room as a result, but a little part of Derek agreed with her then. And maybe now. There's no question Nancy felt displaced by Amy's birth, or that she seems to have carried it over into Amy's role with her children.

That's not to mention her prescription pad.

Is Nancy still angry?

She's had time to vent her anger – Clara's wedding, certainly. But all of the siblings together, again, this summer? It's not just the weather that's threatening to boil over.

"It was a long time ago," he tells Amy now. "I'm – glad to hear Jesse's getting help." He pauses, reading Amy's expression. "You don't think it's enough," he guesses.

"Is it ever enough?" Amy asks.

"Well, does he seem – better?"

"You sound like Nancy," Amy says, but there's no hostility in her tone. "It takes time, it takes – it hasn't been very long at all, Derek."

"I know that." He studies her for a moment. "But you're still worried about him."

"Of course I'm still worried about him. I _was_ him." Amy shakes her head. "Aren't you worried about him?"

"Yes," Derek admits, even though he hasn't set foot in New York for seven years, even though before last week his last memory of Jesse was a freckled little boy with a cowlick and a Spaulding ball.

Amy's eyes look faraway, and then she seems to reorient herself. "I should take Viv."

"Right." Derek leads her out of the kitchen and into the living room, where Zola is trailing Vivian across the floor, carrying one of her pink tiaras. Vivian has her canvas bag slung over one of her bony little shoulders; the image makes her look even more like Mark … or this incarnation of Mark, anyway.

"Where you going, Vivi?" Zola asks conversationally.

"Home, I think," Viv says, her tone uncertain. She glances at Amy, who nods.

"Home," Vivian repeats, sounding a little more decisive this time. She looks at Amy again. "My dad said I could see my mom."

Amy looks uncomfortable, and Viv doesn't seem to miss it.

"He _said_." She turns to Derek and Meredith, as if seeking confirmation.

"Your dad is going to call," Amy says, her tone artificially bright. "Let's go home and make sure we don't miss it. Okay?"

She holds out her hand; Vivian declines to take it.

She turns to Derek and Meredith again.

"Thank you for having me," Viv says politely, as if she's been at a garden party. She's holding her stuffed panda under one arm, its jaunty pink-stitched smile the usual contrast with its mistress.

"Any time." Derek smiles at her.

"Thank you for coming," Meredith says.

"Wait!" Zola grabs Vivian's free hand. " _Don't_ go, Vivi," she implores. "Play more."

Viv looks torn.

"You'll see her soon, Zozo," Derek assures his daughter, finally scooping her up when she seems unwilling to let go of her friend. Zola clutches his neck, watching Vivian leave like she's sending her across the Atlantic.

"Vivi's coming back?" Zola asks him, her voice quavering. He kisses one impossibly soft little apple cheek.

"You'll see her soon," he repeats, feeling a bit like a cad to sidestep her question.

The thing is, as he watches Vivian walk out the door hand in hand with Amy, he has no idea if that's true. He's been wrong each time he thinks this child, this living memory of two people he consciously forgot, has walked out of their lives.

Then again, as she turns by the elevators to offer Zola a little half-wave over her shoulder, this time … feels different.

…

The next time Mark's name crosses his screen, it's a call, not a text.

"How's Addison?" he asks instead of _hello._

"She's actually – she's still breathing on her own," Mark says, apparently diverting from _okay,_ and not seeming surprised at Derek's opening question.

Which makes sense.

"She's talking," Mark says. "She's tired, but she's talking."

Derek doesn't know how to respond. Does he ask if they figured out the provenance of her decline, if her independent sustenance now means it's over?

"That's ... good," he says, settling for platitude.

"Yeah." Mark is silent for a moment. "The thing is, we're actually – well, we're transferring her to MSC. It's in process right now. So, you know, maybe I'll see you around."

Derek is confused. Transferring her back to the specialized cancer center?

"She's having surgery." Mark's tone is surprisingly blank, maybe a little confused himself. "She, uh, she wants surgery."

"She does?" Derek grips the phone, knowing his echo question was meaningless.

"Yeah. She does. I don't know," Mark says abruptly. "She woke up, and she wants – so we're transferring her."

He doesn't say: _there's not a lot of time._

He keeps talking.

"We're calling in the troops." Mark pauses again, and Derek can hear him breathing. "There's a whole team of fetal surgeons for – the baby. Addison trained two of them herself."

Mark sounds rueful. So Addison is consenting to surgery, and holding out hope the unborn baby will survive the process.

The unspoken part of Mark's explanation: _but at least there's a surgeon for her too._

Derek considers the surgical news: admittedly, he's shocked. All this risk, all this time, and now she's choosing to treat?

Meredith is watching him; he's said little on the call with Mark but his face must have given him away because hers is concerned.

"Let me know if we can do anything," Derek says finally, realizing he sounds like his mother used to on the phone with neighbors, members of their church. _It's just what you say._

"Nah, you've been great. You and Meredith. I don't know what we would have – " Mark stops talking. "You're leaving, what – tomorrow?" he asks.

"Day after."

"Right. Well, I'll see you around maybe, if your mom's back for post-op."

Derek isn't sure what to say. MSC is mere blocks from their temporary apartment, but his newly revived relationship with Mark has been so rooted in emergency, linked to Vivian's care, that seeing him outside of that seems strange. Addison is having surgery. He won't stop needing help, why would he? But Mark's tone seems – final, and Derek adopts it.

"She may be. Good luck with everything," Derek says. He almost says, _Let me know how it turns out_ , but it seems morbid.

And he still hasn't quite wrapped his mind around what's happening. Addison's plans, or Mark's. Even Viv's, her small face closed and set when she left their apartment, earlier. After the intimacy of the last two weeks, he can feel them reverting to the ciphers they were when he called from Seattle, when he spotted the uncharacteristically skinny man and his solemn daughter in the bodega, avoiding his questions.

Meredith's soft footsteps fill the doorway. He glances at her and she gestures for him to take his time. She waits patiently, leaning against the counter, as he finishes up with Mark. He can hear the sounds, from the living room, of his mother playing with Zola. He catches a word here and there, _tea_ , and _Grammy_ , and _ahh_ , which must be his mother delighting in whatever Zola is pretending to serve her.

It sounds so normal.

Grandmother and grandchild, who met for the first time less than two weeks ago, but still … normal.

He closes the phone.

"How was that?" Meredith asks.

"…strange," he says, echoing the first night when he called across the country.

The reprise isn't lost on his wife, based on her expression.

"Addison is having surgery," he adds, when she continues to look at him expectantly.

"Surgery. Seriously? She agreed to it?" Meredith's eyes widen.

"She must have. She's awake now," he says, turning the words over in his own mind.

He's suddenly very tired.

Meredith seems to pick up on this, tipping her head onto his chest. He pulls her flush against him with more exhaustion than desperation; she brings her arms up around his back.

"It's a lot," Meredith says after a moment. He's stroking her hair, letting its familiar texture ground him.

He agrees.

It's a lot.

Shattered skulls are one things, shattered families another. It's no wonder he's spent the last seven years digging into one and avoiding the other.

It's hard to believe it's been less than two weeks, here in New York. It feels at the same time like forever and like each day is a surprise.

"Talk to me," his wife suggests, the warm weight of her comforting against him.

"I don't know. I … might be a little homesick," he murmurs against her skull.

"I might be a little homesick too," she admits, leaning back but staying in the circle of his arms. "It's strange here." Her voice is a low whisper. "It's objectively strange, Derek, it's okay to be homesick. I think," she adds.

"Our lives in Seattle aren't strange?"

"Not by these standards." Meredith frees a hand to work into his hair. "By normal, everyday, average standards. You know, open head wounds, maybe a little sepsis."

Derek finds himself almost smiling. "Triage," he says. "All-nighters."

"Skull flaps."

"Ferry accidents."

"Flesh-eating bacteria."

"Plane –" he stops before he can say _crashes_. He didn't even mean that one, but –

"Blood," Meredith says, her tone casual and unbothered. "Lots and lots of blood."

"Whisper more sweet nothings," he teases, leaning closer.

She pulls him down for a kiss. "You smell like shampoo," she says.

"Is that bad?"

"No," she says. "But it's not betadine."

"You want me to smell like surgery."

"I wouldn't mind," she admits.

He kisses her, and then she moves back into his arms and holds him tightly.

"We'll be home soon," she says, into his shirt.

He nods, sifting his hands through her soft hair.

Mark's crisis has felt like his, but it's slipping away now, and he lets it, just breathing in the comfort his wife is offering.

"Mommy!" Zola calls from the living room, interrupting their silence.

"I should go," Meredith says softly, pulling back and giving him a brief smile. "As long as you're okay. I actually came in here for ingredients."

"I'm okay," Derek assures her, then pauses. "Ingredients?"

"Zola's requests. Sparkles," she says. "And sprinkles. And … purple."

"Purple." Derek raises an eyebrow. "That's not an ingredient. It's not even a noun."

"Tell your daughter that." Meredith stands on tiptoe for a kiss. "But later. After I break it to her that I couldn't find any purple in the kitchen."

…

Mark's phone call – his news, his tragedy – fades with the worst of the afternoon heat.

Instead, on one six by six picnic blanket in cheery red checks, Derek's world is not just complete, but sunny.

Sunny despite the drawn shades and the air conditioning and the heated glare outside.

Sunny as they sit in a three-pointed circle, Zola beaming to be hosting both parents, Meredith looking almost as happy herself. And Derek with his vantage point of both of them.

There's nowhere else he'd rather be.

He's aware of it, his happiness a conscious shade drawn on the rest of the world.

They're faded, at bay, but still not absent - he does think of them from time to time: his former best friend, his ex-wife, their children born and unborn. He thinks of them when Zola reaches up to touch his face, a contented smile all over her small one, murmuring his name, and he squeezes her in his arms, marveling at her healthy wholeness, her joy. He never knew them carefree.

But he's distracted, mostly. His mother is resting – at his urging, and assuring her Zola would soon leave for her bath. It's not like he can blame his mother for wanting as much time with her newest grandchild as possible. But in the chaos of the strange last two weeks, he's had to remind himself along with his mother that she's just undergone surgery.

It may have been routine, she may be recovering splendidly. She may be strong, hearty, the mother of five, but she still needs rest.

So it's the three of them on the floor, Zola soaking up their attention, accepting it as her due, as it is. With a tiara atop her head and a boa around her shoulders – and two around Derek's, but Meredith has assured him she won't take any pictures without warning – she holds court like a natural.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, knowing his daughter won't always be this small. He memorizes that specific taste of air when it's swallowed from a pink plastic teacup.

"Daddy." Zola tugs on one of his boas. "I baked a carrot to share."

Meredith is hiding a smile behind her teacup as Zola waves imperious little hands to direct him to slice the carrot – _careful_ , she says firmly, making him smile, but also making him take extra care with his imaginary knife.

"Mm, so good. Right, Mommy?" Zola flings a handful of carrot toward her mother, beaming. Then their daughter pauses. "Give the baby some carrot," she suggests.

Meredith exchanges a glance with Derek.

"He wants some," Zola says.

Derek swallows at this, remembering years of his nieces and nephews interpreting for their smaller siblings. Emma, Nancy's oldest: _Sean wants a cookie. Jesse wants a turn._

Thinking of Jesse makes him sad, and he doesn't want to be sad.

He wants to be here, on a picnic blanket on a parquet floor two dozen stories above the city he once called home.

Manhattan isn't home. It won't be, ever again. But the blanket, the one from the linen closet with its cheerful red checks, holds the most precious things in his life.

That's home.

Zola, her little hand resting on her mother's belly, offering her baby brother imaginary snacks. Meredith, schooling her face into appreciation instead of laughter so as not to offend Zola, matching her enthusiasm for the baby's inclusion.

His family.

He's stretched the shape of it, tweaked the definition a bit these muggy two weeks, but its corners are still the four corners of the blanket.

Meredith. Zola. The son who will join them in half a year.

The tea party continues, takes a little break, and then veers into reading. Zola climbs from one parental lap to the next, still delighted with their focused attention.

He lets himself enjoy it instead of feeling guilty: plastic teacups and storybooks and his daughter's laughter – no pages, no laptop, no residents calling. No work at all.

He doesn't know the next time they'll have this, so he focuses on _here_ , on _now_.

His phone buzzes halfway through _The Snappiest Turtle on the Block._

Meredith glances at him when it continues to buzz.

He uncovers the phone with an inward sigh – he'll make short work of it, whoever it is.

 _Amy_.

He considers her pensive face earlier that day, her concerns for their nephew, and decides to take it. He'll be fast.

"Hey." He stands up to get some distance from the story, which is starting again with enthusiastic snapping turtle noises from his daughter. "What's going on, Amy? Is Jess –"

"Jesse's fine. Or, the same, whatever."

"Okay." Derek listens to Amy's quick breathing down the phone line. She sounds agitated, her breathing quick; for one brief moment he wonders if – no, she wouldn't be using. "What is it then?"

She doesn't answer for a moment and he thinks his bluntness may have offended her. It would be somewhat unfair given her own unfiltered nature, but no one ever called any of the Shepherds fair.

He'll think once she speaks that maybe her silence was just bracing herself.

"Derek, have you seen Vivian?"

"Not since she left with you." He's confused. "Why do you – "

"I thought maybe she tried to get back to see you, or Zola or something, and – "

"Amy," he cuts her off. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying she was here, and now she's gone. And I don't know where she went." Her voice rises urgently, veering into full-on panic now. "I'm saying she's _missing_ , Derek. Viv is missing."

* * *

 _To be continued. Some of you may have seen this coming, some of you may hate me, but I promise not to make you wait too long for the next chapter. Let me know what you think - your reviews keep me motivated and encouraged. I'm going to do my best to get the next chapter up by this weekend - help me stay on the straight and narrow! And thank you, as always, for reading. Overall, the response to this story has blown me away, and I'm so grateful._


	46. ends of the earth

**A/N: _Not too long a wait, right? Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter - they're much appreciated. I love hearing from people who are just now reading this whole long bear of a story and I love hearing from those of you who've been checking in every chapter (bless you). Sorry about the cliff, so let's get back to the story now:_**

* * *

 _ends of the earth  
..._

* * *

 _I'm saying she's missing, Derek. Viv is missing._

"Derek!"

Amy pulls open the heavy front door of the Sloans' townhouse, her expression frantic. It didn't take him long at all to jump in a cab, after assuring his mother and Meredith it would be fine, that Amy could handle it.

That's not to say he actually _feels_ assured, now that he's here. Amy's panic was palpable down the phone line and it's even more so in person. She grabs his arm, pulling him inside.

His sister looks worse for the wear, rumpled and mussed like she's been crawling around on the floor – and maybe she has.

"It was latched," she says shakily, pointing at the chain at the top of the front door. "It was latched, Derek, so she can't have gone out the door."

That's a relief, or it should be – and she did tell him that on the phone – but it doesn't feel like much of one, not with Amy's pale frightened face.

"Amy – "

"So she's here. Or she has to be. Right? But I've looked and I can't find her," Amy repeats, her voice shaking. "I just – I looked, but I can't. I looked, Derek, and – "

"Okay." He cuts her off sharply as she starts to spiral. "Just tell me what happened. Did you – were you arguing?"

"No," Amy says. "No. Everything was fine," _or whatever passes for fine in this house_ , Amy's expression seems to say. "We came home, we were just – doing stuff. Together. And then Mark called, Viv talked to him, it was – fine. Viv asked for a snack after dinner. I went to the kitchen and then I got a call and I – I was distracted, for a second."

"Nancy," Derek predicts.

Amy flushes. "Nancy. But it wasn't that long, Derek, it was five minutes. Ten minutes, at the most. I put on a movie for Viv, I could hear it from the kitchen. She can sit for longer than that, she does it all the time."

He feels guilt.

Unreasonable guilt, unhelpful guilt, but guilt nonetheless.

While he was relishing time with his healthy wife and untroubled daughter, with the uncomplicated pregnancy that will bring a son to their family, Vivian was alone in the care of his own baby sister while her father tried to keep her mother alive.

Stated like that, it's bleak.

It's so bleak.

"Derek." Amy looks miserable. "I don't understand. I looked everywhere in the house."

"Are there any other doors?"

Amy shakes her head. "They sealed off the old service entrance and the back door just goes straight into the garden."

A walled garden, with no exit. In another lifetime, Derek owned a brownstone too, albeit one much smaller than this one.

"So you think she's hiding?"

"No. I don't know. She's never done it before."

But everything in Vivian's life is unprecedented these days, it seems.

"Open windows …"

"I checked."

"There's another hour of daylight," Derek says grimly. "Maybe a little more."

"Derek, you don't think she – was kidnapped? No. Kidnappings are rare." Amy's voice trembles. "Stranger kidnappings, I mean. Mostly it's custody disputes and we know that's not a thing here, and – "

"And ransom?" Derek shakes his head. "Like a kid walking by herself out of a Park Avenue mansion?"

"You don't really think – "

"No," he says, and he doesn't, if only because he's not sure anything else, statistically speaking, could even happen to the Sloans at this point.

"Look." He draws a deep breath, trying to focus them both. "There's no reason to think she left. Is there?"

"The chain's on the door," Amy says again. "She can't have gone out that way."

"And you searched the house?"

"Her room. The playroom, the kitchen, the garden."

They exchange a glance.

"Mark's room," Derek says, as Amy says some version of the same thing, and they pound the stairs in unison.

Mark and Addison's bedroom is vast, far more space than Derek can imagine anyone needing. There are two spacious walk-in closets, a bathroom with a large anteroom – they split up to cover the ground. Amy even bellies down to the floor to peer under the bed.

"Viv," she calls, pulling open another closet. "Viv, are you here?"

The room is enormous but they cover it together with no success.

Back on the landing, Derek glances at the closed door that he knows leads to the third floor.

"Did you – "

He gestures. Mutely, Amy shakes her head.

"She told me not to go up to the third floor." Derek persists, recalling Vivian's small, worried face. "When I was with her, she told me that. She didn't tell me why. She, uh, she just said she'd get in trouble – what?" he asks, off Amy's expression. "Amy?"

"You don't know," Amy says slowly.

"Don't know what? _Amy_ ," he adds when she doesn't respond. "If it's relevant – "

"It's not," Amy says. "There's a latch, taller than she is. See? Even I can barely reach it."

"You used to live there," Derek recalls. "On the third floor."

"The latch postdates me," Amy says. "The height isn't a coincidence."

Derek isn't following, but he's not sure he needs to be. Amy is distractible; she always has been, and they need to focus now.

They search the rest of the second floor again, together. Derek has an uncomfortable flash of search parties, on the news, walking side by side to cover every inch of ground.

Vivian's room looks more rumpled than he remembers, probably from Amy's first search.

He's been in Vivian's bedroom before, with her, the first time he brought her home to gather her things so that he could bring her, in turn, back to their temporary apartment to stay.

This time, without the sad-eyed little girl in rainbow-print pajamas to give it context, the room despite its slight disarray looks both cheery and peaceful, the kind of place a child might live.

Amy pulls back the curtains around the reading nook Derek recalls from his previous visit. He opens one of the closets; it's tidy and undisturbed, but he pushes aside some of the racks of clothing anyway just in case. There's no sign of Vivian, but a single shoe falls from one of the shelves. He picks it up to replace it and pauses for a moment at the sight of it in his palm. It's either outgrown or Vivian is smaller than he remembers – she so much older and bigger than his own child that he's not even sure, now – but either way it's a small pink canvas sneaker with white rubber trim on the toes that he could easily imagine buying for Zola.

"Derek." Amy props her hands on her hips. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." He puts the shoe back. Amy's already searched the other closet.

Nothing.

"Is there a basement in this house?" Derek asks

Amy nods. "But there's a deadbolt at the top. So we can count that out, at least."

Derek follows her out into the garden.

He lived in Manhattan long enough to know, objectively, how unusual and luxurious this amount of space is, with its privacy and open space. With his perspective shifted by Seattle, though, it's small and easily searchable: There's a wrought-iron archway laced through with leaves, a child's swing. A dining area. One of the chairs is pulled out just slightly from the table.

Nothing.

It's walled in, it's private.

There's a small shed, and she's not in there either.

 _Where are you?_

But … wait. He crouches down. Is that –

"Amy!" he shouts.

…

Zola may not know what's going on but she understands the general tension in the apartment and responds accordingly, clinging to Meredith and asking repeatedly where her father is.

Meredith tries to soothe her with stories, with cuddles, with a sippy cup of milk. Carolyn can't do enough for them, even when Meredith worries they're overtaxing her.

"You should rest."

"I'm perfectly capable of healing without lying in bed." Carolyn smiles at her. "I didn't do a lot of lying in bed with a house of five children."

"It must have been hectic." Meredith glances at her phone.

"Have you heard anything?"

"No, I know Derek and Amy are on top of it," Meredith says. "And the front door was chained," she repeats, not sure who she's comforting in the moment.

She pauses. Vivian is skinny and strategic, two qualities in her experience that allow you to fit through very small spaces.

But Amy knows the house, its entry and exit points.

Surely she would have checked.

"And they've told Mark…?" Carolyn shakes her head. "I don't envy that."

"They must have," Meredith says, even though she's not actually sure. By this point, she's figured out that there's always a calculus involved in sharing information with both the Shepherds and the Sloans.

Mark, at Addison's bedside, looped in on his missing daughter? Is there even a good answer to that question?

"I can't really blame her for wanting to hide," Carolyn says, making a seat for herself on the sofa. "There's a lot on her little shoulders, poor lamb."

Meredith nods.

"I always thought Mark would take to fatherhood," Carolyn muses, "but that it would require him to settle down, so … let's say I wasn't holding my breath. But he was always so patient with Amy. She wasn't always easy, and my older girls would lose patience with her. Derek too. Mark, though." Her voice trails off. "I suppose a part of me thought those two might end up together. Make Mark an official Shepherd." She pauses. "I can't say I like the route he chose to make it official, but he was always such a lonely boy. He and Derek did everything together, from the time they were Vivian's age. You couldn't tell where one ended and one began, and …."

Meredith nods, leaning back against the couch. She's chosen the floor, Zola sitting in the bucket of her crossed legs, content to play quietly with her soft blocks as long as her mother is holding her.

Zola builds a small tower, turning an anxious little face up to her mother. Meredith drops a kiss on her head.

The tower falls.

She glances at her blackberry again.

"Any news, dear?"

Meredith shakes her head. "Derek said the chain was on the door," she repeats. "So she can't have gone very far. It's just …"

" … frightening?" Carolyn says. "I know. I must seem very calm to you. It's not that I don't care. Far from it. But five children, the number of runaways, whether it was hiding in the shed or leaving the property …." She shakes her head ruefully. "That was in Connecticut. You'll visit, sometime, and you'll see it's small. Homey, you know. All the neighbors knew us and we knew them and I would need both hands to count all the times one of them brought one of my children home. Nancy ran away when she found out I was having Amy," Carolyn admits. "Oh, she was angry. Packed a little picnic bag and everything. Nancy was always a good cook. Tried to convince Kathy to come with her, but Kathy had already tried it more than once."

Meredith nods.

"Derek was a runner too." Carolyn smiles, a little sadly. "If he was upset, or – you know, if he felt guilty. He and Mark broke the basement window more than once, they never could remember not to throw that baseball around next to the house. And he'd take off."

"What did you do?" Meredith asks, interested in this story of her husband when he was small. She can picture him: mop of dark curls, sad blue eyes soft with guilt. Maybe their son will look like him.

"I'd send his dad after him," Carolyn says. She smiles down at Zola. "My husband could always get him to come home. All he needed was a little reminder that we loved him more than we could love any window."

Meredith is touched.

"Don't get me wrong, those boys worked off the new panes of glass every time," Carolyn adds, perhaps concerned Meredith would think she was too soft.

She smiles slightly, trying to resist staring at her blackberry again. It will vibrate, if he calls. If he texts. It's taking a while for Derek to get back to her.

Then again, it's a large house to search, she knows this.

But Viv could have fallen asleep. She could be sleepwalking ….

"You think she could have left the house," Carolyn proposes, raising an eyebrow when Meredith lifts her face.

"I don't see how," Meredith says.

 _But if she did …_

"It's New York City," Carolyn acknowledges, picking up on her train of thought, "but my children like to tell me that this is just a place to live like any other. No different from running away across the Millers' yard. I'm not sure I agree … but Nancy's twins take the subway by themselves, and they're not even thirteen yet."

She looks at Meredith over her glasses, apparently seeking an ally in this scandal, so Meredith just nods. She's been getting along so well with her mother in law – this doesn't seem the time to reveal what she herself was doing at twelve-going-on-thirteen. There may not have been any subways, but she's fairly certain that one detail won't make Carolyn feel better.

Her blackberry buzzes –

Derek.

 _Finally_.

"You found her?" she says in lieu of greeting.

Her stomach sinks at his reply.

…

One small hole.

One small girl.

"She could be anywhere. It's dark, Derek, she has an hour's lead time on us," Amy paces frantically. "More. What do we _do_?"

"We call the police," he says.

"No, no, I haven't even told Mark – "

" – which makes sense if she's hiding upstairs but not if she's god knows where. Come on, Amy!" Her reticence confuses him. Is it guilt? "Amy … how long were you on the phone with Nancy?"

"Ten minutes, Derek," she snaps. "I'll show you the fucking cell records if you want. Is that really so – "

"I'm sorry," he says, reminding himself that she's as worried as he is. "Amy, I'm sorry."

"I can't call the police," she says.

"You can't – fine, then I will." Derek reaches for his phone, exasperated.

"Derek, wait." She grabs his hand. "You don't get it, okay? There's stuff you don't know."

He looks at his sister, white with fear, pacing frantically in the oversized great room of the townhouse where his ex-wife and his former best friend have been raising their family. A place he never thought he'd see, much less help Amy turn upside down looking for a missing child.

He's been plunged from indifference to intimacy these two weeks.

And there's still more?

…

Meredith is pacing with Zola in her arms.

She can't sit still, not with Vivian missing.

The comfort of the chained door, the illusion that she was inside, is gone.

 _Where is she?_

"Amy knows her well," Carolyn says, though her broad face is set in worried lines, too. "She'll know where she might run."

 _Run._

Meredith's stomach feels hollow.

She remembers the first time Vivian was in her care, and she found her on the terrace high above the city. She remembers the way she refused to come inside.

Viv has been a very small, very sad time bomb from their first interaction, and Meredith knows this, but she also thought the child had been letting off steam, bit by frightening bit: her anger in the pool, given way to confidence and tears. Her night terror, and the way she permitted both Derek and Meredith to comfort her afterwards.

That she ran isn't shocking.

And when she thinks about it, _where_ she ran shouldn't be either.

Vivian's only ever asked for one thing.

…

"Addison," Amy says. "Viv must be trying to find her."

Derek is the one pacing now, frustrated with Amy's refusal to involve the police.

"You think she went to the hospital?"

They exchange a quick glance and then they're chasing each other to the front door.

"Wait. Maybe one of us should stay, in case she comes back?"

Derek swallows his reply that if they involved the police there could be more _somebodies_.

"You're right. Let's just go."

Amy pulls the door shut behind them, her stride fast enough down the block to be called a jog. When she stops it's with so little warning that Derek nearly crashes into her back.

"What now?"

"Which hospital?"

Derek shakes his head. What do you –

And then he remembers Mark's words:

 _We're transferring her to MSC. It's in process right now._

But the last time Vivian saw her mother, it was at Schuyler Hill, where Mark brought her during her middle of the night crisis.

"Does she know about the transfer?" Derek asks. "Amy!"

"I don't _know!_ I didn't say anything to her but Mark might have and even if he didn't – "

Even if he didn't, Vivian has a track record of picking up bits of information that were never directly shared.

He's aware.

"Amy, you have to tell Mark."

She shakes her head, her eyes huge.

"Look, he needs to know. Amy – _Amy._ " He grabs his sister's arm, stilling her walk. "We don't even know which direction we're walking, just slow down."

"I can't tell him."

"You want Vivian to just walk into the damn hospital room while he thinks she's with you? Amy, he needs to know!"

Derek's voice is raised; no one on the street seems to notice, or care.

Which is fine, except for the gnawing fear that means they wouldn't have noticed a not-quite-six-year-old girl making her own way to the hospital either.

"I'm calling him," Derek says. "He needs to know. He needs to _look_. He's at MSC, he can alert – security, whoever, and we'll go to Schuyler Hill. It's only a block – _Amy._ "

His sister is covering her face with her hands. When she peels them away her eyes are huge and frantic. "Derek, MSC is all the way – " She gestures sweepingly eastward. "It's a long walk. What if someone – what if someone grabbed her, and – "

"Stop. That's not helping." He takes her arm to hustle her the sole block to Schuy Hill. "Go in," he says. "Tell security, have them make an announcement, look wherever you think _she_ might think Addison is. Keep your phone on and call me if you see anything."

"What are you going to do?"

Derek's tone is as grim as he feels. "I'm going to stay out here. I'm going to call Mark."

…

"No luck?" Meredith asks.

"No luck." Derek grimaces into the phone. "You're okay? And Zola?"

"We're all fine, Derek, just worried. I can come help you look. Your mom can stay with Zola. The more people – "

"No," he says. "No, I'll just worry about you too. Stay there."

"You searched the hospital?"

"Schuy Hill takes up a whole block," he says, shaking his head. "Not to mention MSC. And they're filled with people. We're trying, Meredith."

"I know you're trying." She exhales. "Is there anything I can do? That we can do here?"

"Not unless you lojacked her while you were babysitting." Derek shoves his hair out of his eyes. "Just wish us luck."

…

Amy emerges from the glass doors of the hospital as Mark's feet pound the pavement toward them.

"Security's on it," she says, "they're looking in – "

"Amy!" Mark's eyes are blazing. "Where did she go? How the hell did this happen?"

"I don't know, Mark, but we're looking, we think she came to find Addie – "

"You were supposed to be watching her!" Mark shouts, grabbing Amy's arm as she takes a step back.

"Okay, okay!" Derek intercedes quickly, getting between them. "Mark, we're going to find her, but yelling at Amy isn't helping. _Back off,_ " he adds firmly, putting out a hand to separate the two of them.

"She's gone, Derek." Mark turns his terrified gaze to him. "Amy said she's gone – "

"How could you let her leave?" Mark turns on Amy again before Derek can respond. " _How_?"

"You're the one who wouldn't let her see her mother!"

And there it is.

Mark's face drains of whatever color it had left and Derek finds himself in the middle of them again.

"Amy, that's not helping, just stop – blaming each other. Stop it, both of you. Mark, security in both hospitals are aware. They're looking. We're going to find her."

Mark looks like he's having trouble standing. "No, I wouldn't let her, Amy's right. She kept asking, and – "

"Mark – that doesn't matter now. You were doing what you thought was best."

"I'm not. I didn't." He shakes his head. "I'm not _good_ with her anymore. Not good for her. Derek knows." He looks at his old friend, seeking condemnation that Derek doesn't provide. "You know," he says urgently. "I can't – I'm hurting her. I'm hurting both of them."

"Mark," Amy says quietly, and Derek can tell from her face that she regrets what she said. "Viv loves you. And she knows you love her."

In this moment Derek realizes he hasn't actually heard the two Sloans exchange those words. It's not that the words are necessary, just that he's seen so many goodbyes between them over the course of their reignited relationship, but those words have never been a part of them. He has no doubt that Vivian is a loved child, that she loves her parents, that in addition to the cloak of sorrow and regret darkening their oversized home, there is love in its vast spaces too, in its many rooms.

"It's hard, she's hard and it's not her fault, it's just …." He glances at Derek. "It's easy to be good at it when things are easy, you know?" He doesn't have to say he means parenting; it's clear. His face is a white mask of pain. "We have to find her. We have to. Derek, if anything happens to her…"

"Nothing is going to happen to her." Derek clasps his shoulder, disturbed by the utter bleakness on his face. It's something close to terror.

"Derek." Mark's eyes are wild. "I can't lose her. I can't."

"You're not going to. Mark. _Mark._ " Derek takes both of his shoulders now, trying to focus him. He feels so thin under his hands, deflated, his shoulders ropy with muscles but lacking in flesh. "Mark. You have to keep it together."

He can't seem to speak.

"We're going to find her."

Mark shakes his head. "Derek," and his voice sounds broken. "Please …."

…

Meredith is pacing.

Zola is sleeping, first in her arms and then on the couch and then, when she was deep enough in slumber to move, the bedroom with the door propped to keep an eye on her.

Carolyn is wiping tears from her eyes. "Of course she's gone to see her mother," she says, her voice thick. "That poor child."

"But Addison's been transferred." Meredith relays the information. "Vivian could have tried to go to either hospital. She could have gotten lost on the way."

She recalls the confident way Vivian led them to the café around the corner for lunch. From what she's seen these two weeks, Viv probably walked a fair bit. Is it too optimistic to hope that means she picked up the route?

Her blackberry buzzes.

"Nothing to report," Meredith nonetheless reports to her mother-in-law.

She sinks onto the couch.

"I believe Amy can find her," Carolyn says quietly, sitting down next to her. Her voice is steady and the hand that pats Meredith's knee is warm. "I don't know all the details of their relationship," Carolyn says, "but I know she's helped with Vivian and it makes sense, to me. Amy must see some of her herself in that child."

Meredith looks up at her. Carolyn's kind face blurs with her tears.

"Amy was a runner, too," Carolyn says softly. "She was only Viv's age when she lost her father."

Meredith nods, wiping her eyes.

"We always found her," Carolyn continues. "And I know Amy can find Vivian."

…

"I can't find her." Amy is breathless, her hair a wild tangle around her face. Security in each hospital has been alerted, and searching. Addison's empty room at Schuy Hill was just that: empty. The family lounges, including the one where Derek first saw Vivian sleepwalking, have yielded nothing of use.

"Call the police," Mark says numbly.

"Mark …." Amy looks uncomfortably from him to Derek.

"Just call them, damn it. Call!"

Amy picks up her cell phone.

Derek is confused by her reticence, by whatever she's not telling him, but there's no time to ask.

There are just three digits to dial.

After that, everything happens quickly.

Very quickly.

They're splitting up, Mark and Derek back to the house to help the police, and Amy staying at MSC to help guide the search.

It's slow motion, tinged with horror, as Mark who is the color of paper hands the uniformed officers a photograph of Vivian in a plaid school uniform and one of her standing on a park bench that looks more like her, recites her height and weight.

That Mark is uneasy goes without speaking, face set in a mask of fear, but whatever was keeping Amy and Mark from calling the police in the first place isn't immediately evident. Derek can only hope that reticence doesn't come back to bite them. The last thing Mark needs is more guilt.

As Mark leads the police through Vivian's last sighting, Derek takes the opportunity to send Meredith a quick text, wishing he had something more substantive to say.

…

"Amy will find her," Carolyn repeats, and it's starting to sound more like a mantra than a prediction.

Meredith appreciates her mother-in-law's faith – sort of – but she feels … useless, impotent, while her husband and her sister-in-law try to track down a lost child.

When she looks at Carolyn's face she remembers what she said earlier, that Amy was only Viv's age when the Shepherd children lost their father.

Vivian could lose her mother.

Amy lost Vivian.

Mark could lose them both.

She sinks onto the couch, feeling her mother-in-law's hand on her shoulder. It's comforting. It's … motherly.

Meredith closes her eyes, reminding herself how little help her fears are.

When she opens her eyes, Carolyn is looking at her. Her eyes are very soft.

"You always found Amy," Meredith repeats hesitantly, somehow missing the mantra. "When she was lost. When she ran away."

"Always," Carolyn assures her. "Every time. It was only hard once, one time. She was upset, Amy. She'd been missing her father and she took off. We knew she wanted to find him."

Meredith feels tears in her eyes, thinking of a small Amy.

"We looked everywhere," Carolyn repeats. "We went to cemetery, I'd taken the children there before, and the church where the funeral was. But she wasn't in any of those places."

"She wasn't looking for him?" Meredith asks, wondering where the story is going.

"No, she was. But it seems she didn't want to go where he was dead," Carolyn says. "She wanted to go where he was alive, I suppose. She went back to the store."

The store their father had owned. Where he was killed.

"He died at the store," Carolyn says, her tone matter-of-fact, "but he lived there far more than he died. The children would go to the store with their father on the weekends, after school – he was alive there," she repeats.

Meredith considers this.

"Was it still – "

"No." Carolyn shakes her head. "By then it was a laundromat. The new owners didn't speak much English but they seemed to understand what Amy needed. They were feeding her when we got there."

The story is impossibly sad, but Meredith can't dwell on it right now, because wheels are turning in her mind.

Amy, missing her father, went to a place where he had been alive.

Vivian's mother is still alive now.

But she's sick.

To see her when she's _sick_ , Vivian would go to the hospital.

But if Vivian doesn't want to see her mother when she's sick …

Meredith's heart speeds up. "I need to call Derek." She stands, Zola on her hip when her daughter protests the concept of separation. "I … think I might know where she is."

…

"Still no luck, Mer," he says quietly into the phone in lieu of _hello_. "I'll call you if – "

" _Derek_ , wait. Listen to me. You think she's looking for Addison, right?"

"Right. And we have people at both hospitals. Security. Cops. Announcements. There's an officer waiting at their house. We're back at Schuy Hill now and we're turning it upside down."

"Derek, wait. I don't think she's there. At either hospital."

"But you agreed." Derek sounds confused. "You thought she went looking for her mother."

"I know. I still think she's looking for her mother." Meredith shifts the phone. "But I think we've been looking in the wrong places. Addison's been sick, in the hospital."

"Right."

"I don't think she's looking in the hospital, Derek. I think she's looking somewhere her mother was healthy."

Meredith hears something on the other end, rustling, voices, one deep and a staticky sound like a walkie-talkie.

"Derek."

"Meredith. I have to call you back, but – "

"Derek, just wait a second – you trust your mother to babysit Zola, right?"

"Of course I do, why?"

"Because I'm going to find Vivian."

"What? Where are you going?"

She tells him.

"Do you really think – ." He stops talking. "Should I get Mark and Amy?"

Meredith pauses, not sure if she wants to get their hopes up. "Let me go now. I'll check first, and – just meet me there, Derek, okay?"

…

 _What are you doing, Meredith?_

She was so sure as she left the apartment, hailed the first cab she saw, pressed her face to the window so she'd know the moment they pulled up to the address she found online.

Now, the cab peeling off into the night, she's standing on the street lamp-lit sidewalk feeling a hell of a lot less sure.

There are people around, coming in and out of buildings, on the sidewalk, cabs and buses and cars.

But she doesn't see Vivian.

She walks up the steps anyway and there it is, on the door.

A gold nameplate with two names:

Addison Forbes Montgomery, M.D.  
Farrah Levinson-Corke, M.D.

Her private practice.

Meredith takes a deep breath. There's a large, heavy door.

A large, locked, heavy door.

Of course.

No medical practice is open at this hour, and no medical practice is unlocked.

Did Vivian come here? Meredith was so sure, but maybe she came here and left, frustrated that she couldn't unlock the door.

Except …

Meredith's heart speeds up.

There's another set of doors through the darkened vestibule – she can see it, illuminated by reddish security lights. There's a complicated buzzer system. It's trimmed in metal, no doubt locked down, but this door –

There's a keypad next to it. She runs her fingers over it. It's too simple for full security.

The mailman must use it, she realizes, and packages are dropped off in the vestibule. Staff and maybe even patients, to get in, and then they have to be buzzed in beyond that.

She grabs her phone as she traces her fingers over the numbers.

"Mark … I need the code."

Of course he knows it.

She's flooded with _sure_ once again, typing it in. The door releases into her hand.

She's off the stoop.

She's in the vestibule, dark and warm – and suddenly flooded with light.

Blaring an alarm.

 _Shit._

She must have tripped the sensors, even with the code.

Covering her ears automatically, Meredith scans the little room.

And there she is.

Curled up in the vestibule, too small and light to trip the motion sensor on her own.

Abruptly, the alarm stops.

"Viv." Meredith sinks to her knees beside the little girl. She suppresses any urge to touch her, to ensure she's real and examine her for injuries.

Vivian looks up her, squinting into the sudden light. Her face is flushed, her braids in damp disarray. Meredith wonders if she's been sleeping.

"Hey." Meredith smiles with sheer relief.

Viv doesn't respond.

"A lot of people are looking for you," Meredith says gently.

Vivian shrugs a little.

"I'm glad to see you," she adds.

When Viv is still silent, Meredith leans back on her heels, looking around. "Amy didn't know you were coming here."

"I didn't tell her," Viv says, the words huskier than usual, like she hasn't used her voice for a while.

Meredith just sits up a little on her haunches. "It's a little hot in here, Viv. What do you think about going outside? Get some air?"

Viv glances toward the closed doors leading to the office. "I want to see my mom," she says quietly.

Meredith's chest feels tight. "I know you do, sweetie, but she's not here." She points through the sealed security doors.

"I _know_ that," Viv mumbles. "I'm not a baby."

"I know you're not, Viv." Meredith holds out her hand. "Let's go outside."

"Is my dad here?" Viv asks, turning her face up to Meredith. "Is he going to take me home?"

"He's on his way." Meredith offers Vivian her hand again.

This time, she takes it.

They walk out onto the stoop together. It feels fully dark despite the streetlights after the unnatural glare of the vestibule's lights, the air warm and humid. In the distance, sirens wail. Meredith holds Viv's hand a little tighter; her skin feels hot and dry.

"You want to talk about it?"

Vivian shakes her head, long braids moving.

Meredith is wary of pushing her, of even touching her when she seems so fragile, but Viv's flushed face and hot, dry skin concern her a little. That vestibule was uncomfortably warm. She's probably dehydrated. Meredith remembers that the bag she grabbed on her way out, without thinking, is a diaper bag, filled with essentials.

"Viv? You want some water?"

Vivian glances up at her, then nods.

Meredith releases her hand and reaches into the bag, rooting for the bottle of water she knows is inside.

"Hang on, I know it's here."

Just as her fingers close around the cool cylinder of stainless steel, there's a rush of air at her side.

 _Viv._

She's taken off.

Fast.

Faster than Meredith can move even if she weren't pregnant, so fast that she blends into the darkness and the shadows of people walking down Park Avenue.

"Stop her!" she calls but no one pays much attention. There are other small blond heads with adults, with each other, all down the sidewalk.

She runs the rest of the block before she stops, trying to gather breath.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

…

"Meredith!" Derek is frantic by the time he reaches his wife; she's bent over on the sidewalk with her hands on her knees. Pedestrians pass by mutely; if he knows Meredith, she sent anyway anyone who stopped to try to help. "What's wrong? Meredith, what happened?"

"I lost her," Meredith pants. "I had her, and I lost her."

"What do you mean?" He helps her stand up, carefully, rubbing her back. "Breathe," he instructs her gently. She's near tears, and he encourages her to drink the bottle of water he sees sticking out of the diaper bag on the sidewalk next to her.

"Tell me what happened," he orders quietly when her breathing is back to normal.

"She ran." Meredith swipes at her hair, looking close to tears of frustration. "She was here, Derek. Viv was here, she was waiting in the vestibule, and then she ran."

Her breath speeds up again.

Derek rests a hand on her shoulder, using the other to update the team searching for Vivian. "Okay. We're going to find her. The police are involved now, Mer. She can't have gone far." Lightly, he squeezes. "Take a deep breath. There you go. Just breathe."

She does, but it doesn't seem to help. He brushes her hair away from her face, settling her on the stoop. He sits next to her, a hand on her shoulder. "Slow down, Mer."

"She was too fast. I ran after her," she admits. "But she disappeared so fast."

"You ran? You can't _run_ ," Derek says sharply, regretting his tone when Meredith lifts an eyebrow.

"Because I'm pregnant?"

"Mer, look at you." He shakes his head. "Look, we have enough – can you just – "

"Just what? Go home and … put the kettle on? Look, Derek, these may have started out as your people but they're my people now too. I'm worried about this too. I'm _in_ this too."

"I know you are," he says, exhaling deeply, "and I love that about you Meredith, I really do, but – "

" – but you also kind of hate it, too."

Derek doesn't respond. He leans forward, kissing the top of her head. "I'm going to help Mark search," he says quietly. "I want you to go back to the apartment, and – "

"I'll help too."

"Meredith, no."

"Derek, I'm fine. A little out of shape maybe, but fine."

"Meredith."

"Derek."

He draws a deep breath. Zola's waiting for you," he tries.

" _Derek_ , she's sleeping and your mom is watching her."

"My mom had surgery a week and a half ago," Derek says, playing his last card.

"No. Don't do that." Meredith shakes her head. "You said you weren't worried about your mom watching her. You can't hold Zola over my head like that."

"I wasn't, I just – "

They both stop speaking at the sound of their names.

"Meredith! Derek!"

It's Amy, barreling down the street and out of breath herself as she skids to their side, effectively ending their argument.

"They've got her," Amy pants. "The police. They've got her."

* * *

 _To be continued._ _Thank you for staying on this ride with me; I appreciate every single one of you. And I can't lie: I love writing about this MerDer. Even the bumps on their road, even if they're a hell of a lot smaller than the bumps on Sloan Street. I love this MerDer because they can actually talk to each other. And they will. And their journey isn't over yet. And all these threads are going to come together. I would love to hear what you think, so I hope you will review and tell me._


	47. can't go back now

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter. I appreciate every single one of them, from new and old readers alike. This story is picking up in pace for me right now - the next few chapters are outlined and drafted in large part. Join my momentum and keep me on track and they'll keep coming fast. I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

 _can't go back now  
..._

* * *

"What happened?" Derek asks, a little breathless as they pile into the police car. Mark is apparently in another car, on his way, most likely twice as overwhelmed as they are. "Where was she?"

"She tried to get in a cab on Madison at 72nd," the officer in the passenger seat reports.

Derek tries not to think about Vivian crossing the breadth of Park Avenue alone – presumably swallowed up in a crowd, but still small enough in the dark that that it could have been disastrous.

"The driver heard the bulletin," the officer continues, "but when he tried to distract her so he could call the cops, she threatened to leave the cab."

Derek has a brief moment of something like amusement at this, thinking of how huffy Addison used to get when a cab driver argued with her about her destination.

"The guy said he was afraid she'd leave so he said he'd take her, and then the closest officers arranged to pull him over at a stoplight, and they took custody of her."

 _Took custody._ Derek has an unpleasant image of handcuffs, no matter how farfetched. He shakes his head. "We're talking about a forty-pound kid."

"Who was running around this city tonight like she had nothing to lose," the officer says from the front seat.

 _Or everything to lose._

"She wouldn't give her name," the officer says. "Told the other officers she didn't have to if she didn't want to."

Now there's amusement mixed with relief on Amy's face. "Yeah … sounds about right."

"But it's her?" Derek asks. "It's definitely her?"

"How many blond kids with hair down to their butts do you think are lost in Manhattan tonight?"

It's a fair question.

There's traffic on their route, and Derek suppresses the urge to ask the officers to slap on a siren and get them around it. He supposes it's not an emergency anymore, not with Vivian found, but his pulse doesn't necessarily agree. Cold stale air is blowing into the backseat, leaving him an uncomfortable combination of chilled and overheated.

Amy is restless next to him in the dark of the backseat, casting occasional nervous glances toward the officers in the front. Having witnessed Amy's last interaction with the law enforcement at Clara's wedding, he can't really blame her.

When they finally pull up at the precinct, there's a commotion outside – Mark, Derek sees immediately, arguing with two officers who are blocking his way through the door.

"Just _wait_ a minute, sir," one of them is saying patiently. "We need to confirm – "

"Let me see her and I'll confirm whatever you want!" Mark seems braced to push his way in and Derek hastens to his side before it becomes an issue.

"Mark." Derek rests a hand on one bony shoulder. Mark's face is grey: with stubble and with worry, his eyes haunted in the reddish sidewalk glare. It's hot, so hot, now that they're outside again and Derek has to swipe dampness from his face with his free hand. "What's going on?" Derek asks, looking from one of the officers to Mark.

The officers exchange a glance.

"Who are you?" one of them asks.

"Who am I?" Derek repeats the question automatically. He gives his name, but they seem to be waiting for something else. "I'm – a family friend," he says after a moment.

A euphemism if he's ever heard one, but it seems to do the trick.

"Just let them in," the taller officer says, his teeth flashing white in the darkness.

"But what about – "

"They can talk to him later."

"Fine." The other officer shrugs and pulls open the heavy precinct door. Mark stumbles through first, Amy and Derek on his heels.

They blink into the brightness of the precinct, and Derek is about to ask when he sees one of the officers point a finger.

He follows the direction to a desk about halfway across a large open room.

And then he sees the mussed, sandy-blond back of her little head, long tangled hair. She's sitting with a female police officer, and Derek can make out what looks like a purple juice box in her hand.

"Viv!" Mark shouts.

"Daddy!"

She pulls away from the officer and runs to Mark, who drops to his haunches to grab her into his arms and then stands up with her, holding her tightly with her little feet dangling.

For a few moments he just repeats her name, sounding like he's in pain.

Activity in the precinct continues, with the ringing of phones, the _chug chug_ of processing copiers, and voices rising and falling in conversation.

But neither Mark nor Vivian seems aware of anything except each other, and Derek hangs back, with Amy, trying not to intrude on the reunion.

"You scared me. I was so scared," he admits.

"You were?"

The taller officer from before intercedes before Vivian can say anything else. "Look, there's – paperwork, and some formalities, but why don't you just get reacquainted first."

The four of them are led into a small cinder block room with scuffed metal folding chairs and a chipped formica table. It smells of bodies and the uncomfortable combination of air conditioner fluid and overheated summer skin, but it might as well be the Ritz for all Mark takes notice of it.

"You can't do that again. Ever." He holds Vivian away from him for a moment and gives her a little shake. "You hear me?"

Then he's holding her tightly again, before she can answer. "I love you, Vivi." His voice breaks. "I need you here with me. You can't run away."

Vivian is crying a mix of apologies and incomprehensible words; tactfully, Derek tries not to notice that Mark is crying too.

When he glances at his sister, he sees her swiping at her eyes.

"Shut up," she mutters when she catches him looking.

…

Derek ducks out of the room briefly once Vivian is secured with Mark. He sent Meredith a quick text when he saw Viv, not wanting her to worry any longer than she had to, but he feels the need to hear her voice. In a brightly lit corridor lined with orange benches, he places the call.

"She's really okay?" Meredith asks, her voice familiar enough to make him ache. He massages his temples, some of the stress of the last few hours catching up to him.

"She's really okay," he confirms, even though she knows and he knows she knows that the answer with that family is always going to be more complex than that.

He's aware, too, that while there's relief in his wife's voice, there's something else too.

"You're angry with me," he suggests.

"No. Not angry." There's a pause. "A little disappointed, maybe."

He's been married enough, over the course of his adult life, to know that's quite possibly worse.

"We should talk about this later," she says. "When you're not in – wherever you are. Later."

He just holds the phone in one hand, not willing to let go, and she doesn't say goodbye.

"Derek … Zola slept the whole time I was gone. Your mother was knitting when I got back here. I don't even know where she found the yarn, but – everything was fine."

"I know."

"And I knew it would be fine."

"I know that too."

He starts to form the words, _I'm sorry_ , but she speaks first.

"You and Mark, you're not that different, in some ways," she says. "In this way. You – can only see it from the outside, and it doesn't matter how much you love them, how much you love us, you think we're choosing even though we're not."

Her voice trails off before he can fully parse her thoughts.

"Let's just talk when you get home, okay?"

He's still considering her words, whether he and Mark are flip sides of the same coin, not quite trusting their wives to balance the competing demands of the children inside and outside their bodies.

Is she right?

His cheeks feel warm remembering how he suggested that Meredith was somehow endangering their daughter, leaving her with his mother. That she was endangering their unborn child by running down the block after a different child.

He hears Mark's voice: _he's a tough little bastard._

And Vivian's: _My dad doesn't like babies._

"Derek?"

"I'm here." He breathes into the phone for a moment, wishing he could be _there,_ physically. "I'll be home as soon as I can, okay?"

He's halfway back to the little room where his sister is keeping watch over Mark and Vivian before he realizes he called the sterile temporary apartment _home_.

…

When he returns to the spare little room, Amy is still resting against the one of the cinder-block walls, next to a faded poster about hand-washing, in both English and Spanish. He notices that one of the corners has been torn off.

He joins her at her post. There's plenty of space between the siblings and Mark, but he still feels like he's intruding. The fluorescent lights on the ceiling are buzzing faintly. He glances up, not really sure where to direct his gaze, and sees a sizable dead fly in one of them.

"I don't know where else to go," Amy murmurs to him, apparently feeling the same way. "I do have a record, you know."

A record … he remembers where they are.

"Amy," he scolds.

"What? I'm glad the cops found her, I just don't want to spend any more time with them than I need to."

Amy angles her body a little away from father and daughter, acknowledging the privacy they probably deserve.

But if either of them notices the presence of the Shepherds, there's no evidence. Mark is completely consumed with Vivian at any rate, still alternating a tight hold and pushing her gently away from him so he can look at her, maybe assuring himself she's really there.

"I wasn't lost," she's saying now in her husky little voice, perhaps continuing a conversation that started when he was on the phone with Meredith.

"Vivi. I didn't know where you were," Mark reminds her, his own voice still shaking a little.

"But I did. I knew where I was." She tilts her head to look up at him. "Are you mad at me?"

"No. Yes," Mark says, "but no. Vivi, you scared me. I didn't know what happened to you or where you'd gone and if – "

His voice breaks off.

"I wanted to see Mommy," Viv says in a small voice.

"I know you did. I know." Mark sounds pained. He cradles Viv's sandy-blonde head against him. "She wants to see you, baby. She wants to see you so much and I want to take you to her."

Vivian leans back. "You do?"

"I do. I know it's hard. I know you had to wait."

"I waited a long time," Viv says, hurt in her voice. "A really long time."

"I know, baby," Mark says again. He sounds broken and Derek wonders if he's questioning his decision to keep Vivian away from her mother while she was intubated.

"Were you really scared?" Viv asks next. "When you couldn't find me?"

Mark nods.

Vivian leans back a little so that she can rest one little palm on either side of her father's face. "I'm scared sometimes too," she says.

He holds her tightly again, moments passing in silence.

When Viv pulls back the next time, it's for another question.

"Do you still want me?"

"Viv." Mark looks close to tears again. "Of course I want you. I always want you."

"Not before," Viv says.

"That's not true." He shakes his head. "Vivian. When are you talking about? When you were staying at Derek's? When you went with Amy?"

She shrugs.

"Vivi, talk to me." He's holding her little face between his oversized hands.

"I was a baby," she says after a long pause, her voice still thick with tears. "You don't like babies."

"Is that what you think?" His voice is rough, a tremor underneath it.

Viv nods.

"You're wrong. I _love_ you," he says. "I loved you when you were a baby and even before that. I loved you from the minute I found out Mommy was going to have you, when you were just a little nugget in her belly. I used to read to you in there before you were born, that's how you turned out so smart."

She absorbs this silently.

"But Daddy," she prompts finally, leaning against him again, "why don't you love Isaac, then? He's just a little nugget too."

Mark face looks lost as he wraps his arms around his daughter.

"Vivi…"

"He's _not_ bad," Viv persists. "He's good."

"Yeah." Mark has to take a hand off of Viv to swipe at his eyes before he responds. "You're right, baby. You're right."

"He's my brother," Viv says. She sounds exhausted now. One of her little hands is fisted in Mark's shirt, the thumb of her other hand drifting toward her mouth.

"I know that. I know." Mark is stroking her hair. "Hey."

Viv looks up.

"Let's go see Mommy," he says.

…

Mark consents to sign the paperwork only so long as Vivian stands a foot away holding Amy's hand. There are quiet conversations Derek can't hear between the officers and Mark and then finally they're finished.

They leave together, the four of them, Mark carrying Vivian on his shoulders. Derek gets the feeling he's not going to be putting her down for a while. The air is moist and unpleasant but the three adults make the decision to walk without discussing it, progressing slowly east in silence.

Outside MSC, they pause to say goodbye. This is where Derek's part of the journey ends. Barely two blocks away, the temporary apartment, with his own family, is waiting for him.

Mark's taken Viv down from his shoulders now and is holding her in his arms. She leans against his shoulder, eyes half closed, while Mark says goodbye to Derek.

"Thank you, man," he says quietly, his voice husky. "I don't know how to thank you. I keep trying, but – "

"You don't have to thank me."

"Yeah. Well, thank Meredith for me too," Mark says.

He hefts Viv a little higher and walks alone through the sliding glass doors into the fluorescent brightness of the hospital.

Derek watches them walk away from a little longer than necessary, Viv's little arm wrapped around her father's neck, one flip-flop-clad foot dangling down.

She glances up at one point, but Derek isn't sure she can see them in the darkness so far away. Or that she's looking, since he knows she must be focused on seeing her mother at last.

"Addie's going to make it," Amy says abruptly, once the Sloans have disappeared into the bustle of the hospital.

She's been waiting for him a few paces from the sliding glass doors.

"You think so?" Derek glances at her. He can't tell how much is medical, how much is her relationship with Addison, and how much is wishful thinking.

"Oh, I know so." Amy's face is as stubbornly persistent as it was when she was a child. "Because if she doesn't, after all this, I'm going to _kill_ her."

It's so inappropriate and thoroughly Amy that he doesn't know how to respond at first.

She catches his eye and then she's laughing; nothing's funny, he recognizes the adrenaline comedown, and when the laughter turns to tears he's not surprised. He wraps an arm around her, leading her away from the entrance to the hospital for some semblance of privacy.

"Oh, my god." Amy pulls away from him. Her cheeks are streaked with tears, her eyes wide. She gestures vaguely at the hospital, the neighborhood, the city. Their lives, and the lives with which they are entwined. Re-entwined.

"Derek – how the _hell_ did we end up here?"

…

The temporary apartment is darkened and quiet when he arrives, having left a calmer Amy at MSC. The air conditioning a welcome blast after the humid air of the street. He checks in on the assorted members of his family – all sleeping – and then showers away the perspiration, the tension of their hunt.

His hand shakes a little when he towel-dries his hair, and the gnawing sensation in his midsection confirms it – dinner. He never ate dinner. In clean sweats now, exhausted but somehow not tired, he settles for an apple from the basket on the counter, avoiding turning on any more lights than necessary.

He sits at the windowed kitchen table for a while, life continuing on the street below. He's not the only one who's not sleeping.

His blackberry buzzes and he's not surprised to see Amy's name.

"Surgery's still on," she says, in lieu of greeting.

Derek lets out a breath. "Tomorrow?"

"First thing in the morning." Amy exhales audibly. "I saw Addie. Just for a minute. She was talking. She was – micromanaging the surgical team. You know, I'm pretty sure she thinks this whole cancer thing is just like a country house she can decorate, not too _match-matchy_."

"Amy."

"What?"

"Never mind," he sighs.

"Mark still basically has whiplash," Amy continues in her typically blunt way. "He's not letting Viv out of his sight, but I guess I can't really blame him for that." She pauses. "Remind me to tell you about the ladies' room at some point."

Derek sets that image aside for later. "What about you, are planning to sleep tonight?"

"Someone needs to," Amy says lightly. "So yeah, I guess."

"You should eat something, too."

"Wow, Derek … you're spending a lot more time with Mom than I realized."

He lets the ribbing go without comment. "And Vivian?"

"She saw her mom," Amy says simply. "And she's with Mark."

So it's not unlike the first time he saw them.

Two weeks and a lifetime ago.

"First thing in the morning," he says, reminding himself of this turn of events.

"Yup. Assuming she's stable in the morning, they're going ahead with the surgery."

No wonder Mark has whiplash.

In Derek's two weeks of reestablished acquaintance with his former best friend, he's witnessed sharp highs and lows – and more lows – in the prognosis and progression of Addison's illness. He's been privy to the exhaustion and mental anguish attendant to Mark's role as primary support for both Addison and Vivian, and how torn he has seemed by their divergent needs. He's seen Mark veer close to blaming his unborn son for what could be the end of his wife's life and he's seen him show a grudging almost-respect for the baby's pre-birth tenacity.

All through it, there's been one common threat: Addison's refusal to treat her cancer.

Her refusal of any intervention that could threaten fetal development, even those – like surgery – that has been not only tested on pregnant women but at the helm of which she herself has succeeded with patients.

No treatment.

And now – she's preparing for surgery.

Derek is struck by how many false endings this story has had, how many farewells that turned out to be _so long_ instead, and he's not inclined to believe this one, either.

He says as much to Amy.

She laughs mirthlessly. "Never a dull moment with the Sloans, right?" She's quiet for a moment. "And … you're leaving," she reminds him.

"The day after tomorrow." He glances at his watch. _Tomorrow_ arrived a while ago. "Amy. If they need anything, or you do – "

"What about Mom?"

"Mom … doesn't seem to need anything," Derek says honestly.

It's not quite true.

His mother has been drinking in every moment with her new grandchild, and has clearly relished having all five of her children in the same city even if getting along for prolonged periods isn't always possible.

"You know … I feel like you've been here longer than two weeks," Amy says, summing up his feelings rather accurately.

It's been a long two weeks. Somehow, they've fit the gap of nearly seven years into those two spans of seven days.

And not just with Mark, either. He hasn't spoken this much with his youngest sister in years.

"Let us know how it goes. And tell Mark – "

But he's not quite sure how to finish the sentence.

He's not sure the end of it.

"Okay," Amy says, as if she understands, and then she pauses. "You know, he seems to be holding up okay, but honestly, Derek? … I think he's afraid to let go of her."

Derek agrees, and when they hang up he realizes that he assumed Amy was talking about Vivian post-runaway, but that she could have been talking about Addison instead.

The thought makes him sad.

…

Meredith is curled up sleeping, facing away from him, breathing deeply. He can't see Zola but he can hear his daughter's slumbering breaths adding to the chorus, clearly sleeping on her mother's other side.

He sits down on the side of the bed, trying not to move it too much, and thinks about how to start the conversation they'll need to have sooner or later.

His wife makes it easy by rolling toward him, apparently not sleeping at all. "You're back," she says.

"I'm back."

She's still lying on her side, half her face obscured. He brushes some of her sleep-tangled hair back so he can see her visible eye, his thumb lingering on the soft skin of her cheek and she sighs – some combination of tired, and … he doesn't want to think about it.

Upset with him.

Deservedly so.

He winces.

"I'm sorry," he says.

She doesn't say anything.

"I do trust you, Mer."

"Don't say you trust me, Derek." She props her chin on her hand. " _Be_ you trust me."

He tilts his head. "Was that English?"

"You know what I mean." She starts to sit up now; he offers his hand, and even though he's certain they didn't do it on purpose, she ends up in his arms. He's sitting up against the end of the bed and she's resting fully against him so that his inhales carry her scent and her exhales warm the skin of neck.

They sit like that for a while before she speaks.

"You're an incredible father," she says softly.

He just strokes her hair, his throat feeling thick. He's not sure he deserves praise right now.

"I knew you would be. And you are, and Zola, you know, she's always been _ours_. Both of ours. And I get that it's hard that you can't do the same with this one. I do get it, Derek." She moves his hand so it's resting on the space where their son is growing. "But thing is that you can't, not yet. I have to do it. I'm the one. And you have to let me."

He's quiet, letting the words sink in. He knows she's right.

As if to underscore his mother's point, their son moves within her womb. Derek finds a smile splitting his weary face.

"He's kicking," he says, still feeling wonder though it's far from the first time now.

"He's kicking," Meredith confirms. She rests her hand over his. "I think he's happy you're home."

"Really?"

"No." She smiles up at him. "I think he likes to make sure he reminds me how hard he can kick when I'm trying to sleep. Or he's getting us ready for when he's born – that's what Nancy said the other day."

Nancy certainly has enough experience with it. He thinks about the calm and caring way his sister handled Meredith's distress, what feels like a lifetime ago now but really wasn't.

"Nancy said no one is ever ready," Meredith recalls, "and the people who think they are … they're the least ready of all."

He considers this. "I'm … worried," he says. "Not because of you, not because of anything you've done or haven't done. I'm just worried."

"Yeah, I know. I am too."

They're quiet again. She's resting flush against him, his arms around her, one hand resting on the small swell of her belly. Her breathing is deep and even, and he wonders if she's fallen asleep.

Then Zola makes a soft sound on the other side of her mother and Meredith reaches for her, lifting her to rest in her arms so the three of them are all connected.

The four of them, counting the son who is still fluttering at intervals against his palm.

Their daughter hardly stirs once she's cuddled up to her mother, long lashes closed, deep sleepy breaths emerging from her parted pink lips once more.

Meredith strokes her cheek; from his new angle, Derek can see that her own eyes are still open. He watches the rhythmic movement of her hand on Zola's little back.

"What about you?" he prods gently.

She glances up at him. "What do you mean?"

"You're … an incredible mother," he says. "Beyond anything I could have – you must know that."

She's quiet for a moment. She and Zola are breathing in tandem now, two parts of one whole, one of Zola's little hands fisted in her mother's hair like she's done since she was small. He sees it, and he sees that Meredith sees it. It never gets dark in here, not really, not enough to conceal the softness in her eyes.

"Our children aside," he continues, "just look at what you've done with Vivian, taking care of her, and – "

"Viv has a mother," Meredith reminds him gently. "I was only trying to help."

"I know that," he says. "Just in my experience, some of the best mothers, they mother people who aren't theirs, too. When they need it, if they need it."

He's quiet for a few breaths, thinking about Mark, and his own mother.

"I'm glad you found Viv tonight," she says after long moments.

"You found her," he says. "You found her, and then the NYPD tracked her down. All we did was show up."

"Showing up is a lot." Meredith shifts in his arms, still holding Zola against her.

"I was afraid to get attached," she admits quietly. "Too early, to the pregnancy, you know, and I'm a doctor and I know all the things that can happen. But Derek, that doesn't mean I'm not attached. Or that I'm not – looking out for him."

"I know that."

"Seventeen weeks," she says, her voice soft and still a little tinged with sleep.

Seventeen weeks … and twenty-three to go.

"Mer," he says softly a moment later, meaning to ask her if it feels to her, too, that they've been here far longer than the scheduled two weeks. That he understands that _week_ can be a subjective measure.

But she doesn't answer; she's fallen asleep.

…

He wakes restless between two peaceful sleepers.

Zola has, at some point in the night, turned him into her bed. He's not complaining, although his softly rounded daughter does have at least one sharp elbow that's currently digging into his collarbone. On his other side, Meredith is curled up in sleep with one of her hands on resting on one of their daughter's bare legs. It's a web of contact he's hesitant to unfurl, but he's awake. Suddenly, completely, _awake_ , and so he carefully detangles Zola and settles her next to her mother. They curl toward each other instinctually, seeking each other's heat, and he waits until their sleepy breaths match in tempo before he makes his way out of the bedroom.

He moves toward the kitchen with no real destination in mind – it's not quite six, and the apartment is a greyish color that could be dusk or dawn. It could be the start of something, or its end.

He drinks yesterday's coffee over ice; it's a little watery, a little off, but it matches the strange quality of the morning. He has the sense that something has awakened him, but no idea what it could be.

The apartment's other inhabitants are sleeping, and he probably should be too – Meredith had a point last night about the sleepless nights that will ensue after their son is born.

His blackberry buzzes – and it's early for a call, very early, but his hand reaches for the device like it knows this is why he woke up early in the first place.

…

He leaves a note and slips outside, the air muggy and heavy with heat despite the early hour.

Amy is waiting for him outside the Coffee Tree. It's open – it's always open, faceless and fluorescently lit, catering to the busy hospital across the street.

"Hey," she says as he opens the door for her. She shivers a little as they walk inside.

"It's freezing in here," she complains.

"It's hot out there," he reminds her.

"Yeah, I bet you haven't missed New York in August." Amy pauses, her expression changing a little. "Why were you up so early?" she asks.

"I'm a doctor."

"So am I."

"And you're up early, too." He heads for the line, wondering if Amy called him here just for a round of verbal gymnastics or if she really does need to talk.

"How's Viv?" he asks when Amy joins him on line.

"Glued to Mark's side," Amy says. "They're with Addison now."

"But the surgery's still – "

"Yeah. They're going to start prepping her soon."

Derek glances at his sister while she waits for her coffee, hands stuck in the pockets of her cutoffs. Whether it's her casual summer gear or the strange arrested development of being back in the middle of his family, Amy seems particularly young to him this morning. Her hair is piled messily on her head, damp tendrils hanging down, and folded sunglasses pull a v into the neck of an ancient-looking Harvard t-shirt.

Amy was like this sometimes when they were young, he remembers, finding him outside when he and Mark were tossing a baseball back and forth or sidling up to him while he was scratching out homework at the battered dining room table. _What_ , he'd say. _What?_ she'd ask in response.

It never helped, with Amy, to point out that she was the one who approached him.

He gets the sense he's back in this circle now, this paint-spinner Shepherd map where he lived for so long. Where information is parceled out to and from, by and for, but often with confusion as to _who_ and _why._ Did Amy seek him out to tell him something? Did he agree to meet her because he wanted to ask her something? All of that blurs now, with the only clarity the Shepherd currency he recalls well.

Secrets.

Amy is still shivering a little, hunched over her coffee. She ordered iced even though she complained about the air conditioning, and now he can see gooseflesh rising on her mostly bare arms.

"Amy …."

She looks up.

What can he say? _You should have brought a cardigan, like Mom would have done._

"Why didn't you want to call the police yesterday?"

Oh. So apparently he was the one who wanted to ask her something.

She doesn't answer, and he's not shocked. Q&A isn't simple, with the Shepherds. Sometimes you have to match up each Q and A on your own. Sometimes it's all Qs and no As … and sometimes the reverse.

"You called the police," Amy says finally.

"I know I called the police. My point is, you didn't want to call the police."

"What were the officers doing with Mark when we got to the precinct?" Derek asks.

Amy just sips her coffee without confirming or denying or supplying any information.

"And it's not the – Nancy stuff, the restraining order and all of that," he continues, frustrated. "That's just Nancy. That has nothing to do with Mark or Addison. Right?"

Amy sets down her sweating cup of iced coffee, wiping her hand on a crumpled paper napkin.

"So it's something else."

He'll have to do both Q and A then, at least to start.

Derek studies his sister's face for a moment: despite all that he knows Amy has done to herself over the years, she still looks youthful, with full cheeks and a heart-shaped face. The damage isn't etched into her skin the way he's noticed it in Mark's, during his time in New York, with deep shadows of exhaustion and craggy lines of worry.

Amy looks … healthy. Certainly for her, she looks healthy.

He also knows looks can be deceiving.

"The third floor," he says, and Amy picks up her cup of coffee again, sets the plastic straw between two rows of sharp teeth.

"You used to live there," he continues when she doesn't respond. He can do both Q&A. He can wait this out if he needs to. It's been long enough now. It's time.

He recalls his exchange with Vivian at the Sloans' townhouse, when she stopped him from going up to the third floor.

 _Does anyone live up there?_

 _Amy used to_ , Viv said.

He persists: "But now you live in another – "

"I don't _live_ there now," Amy says sharply, finally responding. "I'm just helping out. I stay, sometimes, and when I do it's in – "

" – a guest room," Derek finishes for her, Amy's lips outlining the same words at the same time.

He remembers that's how Viv said it, _a guest room_ ; he noticed in the moment because it was yet another point in her absurdly large home. Not _the_ guest room, but _a_ guest room _._

Now he's not focused on definite versus indefinite articles.

He's hung up on verbs instead.

Amy used to live there.

She doesn't live there now. She _stays_ there, but only sometimes.

 _If you go up there … you'll get in trouble_. That's what Viv said to him.

"Amy." He leans forward. "What the hell happened on the third floor?"

"I should get going," she says, not looking at him. "Mark will – "

"Mark is with Addison. You already told me. He hasn't called you; your phone hasn't vibrated. _Amy_ ," he says when she presses her lips together, "how much worse could it be …."

He lets his voice trail off rather than finish the sentence: _than everything else I've seen you do over the years?_

"I thought Mark would have told you," she says, her expression vague.

"Well, he didn't."

Amy considers this. "I guess he thinks it's not his story to tell."

"Is it?" Derek's mind is filled with possible scenarios.

Amy takes another swallow of coffee. "No. Yes, I don't know. I guess it's … everyone's, a little."

"Is it yours?"

"Only some of it."

"But you know all of it," he prompts, frustrated.

Sometimes talking to Amy is nothing but riddles, his little sphinx of a sister who is somehow more mysterious to him now, after spending more time with her than he has in ten years.

"Yeah. I know all of it."

She sets her coffee down.

"Amy … just tell me already," he says.

And finally, in the air-conditioned café that's cold enough to chill their fingers, she does.

* * *

 _You know what's coming next. The Interlude you may or may not have been waiting for. Review and let me know you're on board for a dip into the past and then back to the present where, as you may have guessed, the story isn't quite over either. Thank you for reading, as always, and for reviewing so I don't feel like I'm tossing ten thousand words a week into the void. Truthfully, I love these characters and I am really invested in this storyline and I am going to keep pumping chapters out as long as you keep reading - you know the drill. :) And if you've been reading all along, or started recently, and haven't reviewed, I would still love to hear from you. Drop in and say hi._


	48. INTERLUDE: girl in the war

**A/N:** Do you ever start a new document so you can kill your darlings but then the chapter ends up 15K words anyway? No? Just me, then. Okay. So, here's the third floor interlude you may or may not have been waiting for. Amy said it's everyone's story, and it is, but Mark and Addison are going to tell it. And like every time I write about the pre-cancer Sloans, it gets long. Insanely long. Like all the interludes, you can kind of think of it as a one-shot story of its own. So, I know some of you prefer the present timeline and some of you like the interludes, and I like all of it, so I hope you like this chapter and it fills in some of the gaps for you. Let's go back about two years, a little less.

* * *

INTERLUDE

 _girl in the war_

 _..._

* * *

It's official … Addison is being stalked by pregnant women.

Okay, some of it is understandable, sure – it's technically her job.

Some of it is a little ridiculous, like now, sitting on the stool at her vanity with a four-year-old on her lap at six-thirty in the morning, one hand trying to keep her daughter from knocking over a row of bottles and the other holding the phone far enough from her ear that her anxious patient's voice doesn't puncture an eardrum.

"Caroline. Can you slow down for – yes, I do understand, but I want you to just slow down and listen to me for a minute."

Vivian wriggles on her lap impatiently. She knows she's not supposed to interrupt phone calls – _doctor calls_ , and _Mommy and Daddy have to help someone right now_ , but that doesn't mean she's not strategic and Addison grabs one of Viv's small hands just before it makes breakable contact with her glass jar of moisturizer.

She releases her daughter briefly to cover the phone.

"Mark," she hisses. "Can you – "

He's there in a moment, apologetic, scooping their daughter off her lap. Vivian protests their separation audibly, but is muffled after a moment.

"Yes, Caroline, I'm right here." Addison reorganizes the bottles on the vanity while she talks. "Everything looked good when I saw you yesterday. Remember, we talked about how normal it is for your numbers – yes, I do understand that." She sighs inwardly. "I know there's a lot of information available online, Caroline, and I understand that you're used to doing your own research. But that doesn't mean – "

She's cut off by another stream of anxious chatter, tearful this time.

She glances into the mirror, where she's sporting one lined eye and one unlined one. The unlined one looks tired.

Very tired.

"Yes, of course I can see you if you're concerned. Call my assistant and she'll fit you in. Okay. I know, it's okay. You're welcome."

She hangs up and massages her temples. So much for getting out early today.

Viv bounds over, realizing she's off the phone.

"Sorry," Mark mouths to her, walking back out of the attached bathroom. He's wearing only the broadcloth pajama bottoms he slept in and is sporting a reasonable amount of shaving cream on his face. He's holding his razor.

Vivian has a dollop of shaving cream on the tip of her turned-up nose. Addison dabs it off with a tissue before it ends up on her blouse.

"Did you help someone, Mommy?" Viv asks happily.

It's hard to be annoyed after that. Vivian cuddles briefly on her lap and then sits up again, her face alert and morning-bright.

"Where's Needa?" Viv asks, reaching again for one of the bottles on the vanity. Addison rescues the bottle swiftly.

"Remember, she's visiting her family this week." She hesitates to say _on vacation_. She reminds herself that Vivian isn't being raised by a series of nannies, like Addison was. She has just one nanny – one adored, loving, reliable nanny – and she certainly knows who her parents are.

Still, she doesn't want to emphasize that as much as Needa loves Vivian, taking care of her is a job. A job for which she's generously compensated, including paid vacations. Well deserved vacations. Vacations that are making this week a workday/schoolday logistical nightmare … but well-deserved nonetheless.

"Why?"

"Because some of her family lives far away, and Needa wants to see them." Addison smiles down at her daughter. "Wouldn't you want to visit Daddy and me if we lived far away?"

"No." Viv's natural contrariness doesn't bother her, not when her daughter makes up for it by snuggling close. "Don't live far away, Mommy."

"I'm not," Addison assures her quickly. "I live right here with you."

"Yeah." Viv looks satisfied. She reaches onto the display of products again.

"No, sweetie. Some of them are breakable, remember."

"Why?"

"Because they're made of glass," Addison says patiently.

"When can I wear some?" Viv points to one of the little glass-and-gold bottles.

"When you're older. When you need it," Addison says, stroking the perfect skin of one of Vivian's cheeks. It's hard to imagine anything that could improve her daughter's adorable little face. "A long time from now."

"Put a little on me," Viv begs. "The magic one. Please?"

Addison smiles down at her and then dabs a little moisturizing cream onto Viv's cheeks. She closes her eyes reverentially.

Viv is such a funny combination of things. She shuns dresses, for the most part, unless they're the easy stretchy kind over leggings, preferring clothes that are easy to move in. But she's always been interested in her mother's makeup routine, whether it's putting in on in the morning or taking it off at night. Not that Addison minds – they're sweet moments she enjoys, and with a busy work schedule she relishes any extra time with her daughter.

"Powder too," Viv says, pointing at the gold and glass container with its puffy applicator. Addison finishes buffing her own cheeks first.

"Please?" Viv asks.

"All right. Just a little bit," Addison says. "Close your eyes."

Viv does, and Addison taps the most miniscule amount of powder she can into the air.

"Okay, open."

Viv's blue eyes open wide and she beams. She wriggles down from Addison's lap and approaches the mirror, studying her face.

Addison takes advantage of the free arm movement to line her other eye.

There.

She's not twenty-five anymore, that's for sure.

She's long since thirty-five too.

She's not that far from forty-five, and the thought is enough for her to add a little extra blush to her cheekbones.

"But I can wear makeup for Halloween," Viv is saying, reminding her mother. "You said I could. Amy's gonna do it. Right?"

"Right." Addison smiles at her. "You still want to be – "

"A tiger witch," Viv says. "With the stripes here," and she rubs small fingers along her cheeks.

"You got it."

Vivian is inspecting her makeup again. "Tiger makeup," she says. "Right?"

"Right, Vivi." Addison kisses the top of her head. "How about some breakfast?"

"Tiger breakfast!" Vivian turns her small hands into claws and hisses.

…

"I can pick her up," Amy offers, pouring her third cup of coffee, and Addison can hear the heavenly choir singing.

"Really?"

"Really." Amy grins at her.

And another thing: Addison is beginning to see the power of polygamy.

Not that Amy's actually a second wife. More like … well, like family. Her space on the third floor is private and she has plenty of room, but she demurred every time Addison offered to have the old kitchen hookup above the main kitchen reinstalled. The house has been in her family for a hundred years, with a series of eccentric owners and the mismatched plumbing to prove it.

But Amy prefers the main kitchen, that's what she's always said, the time before ... and now too, with its spacious interior and cozy breakfast nook and the extra office space Mark carved out, facing the garden so he can watch Vivian playing. Addison had it redone, putting in an island and modernizing the fixtures while trying to keep its old-fashioned charm. She's not sure how well it worked, but ever since Amy moved back in with them, that's been the center of their own little family life.

"Amy … are you sure?" Addison reaches down to pat some stray milk off her daughter's chin. "I know you have a lot of your own work."

"Studying," Amy says casually. "I'm not on call tonight. I can definitely do it."

"If you're really sure."

"I'm _really_ sure." Amy turns to grin at Vivian. "What do you think, trouble, you want to hang out with me after school today?"

"Yeah!"

"There. Easy-peasy."

"I really appreciate it, Amy."

"Addie, please." Amy drains the rest of her coffee. "I think it's the least I can do. You know I owe – "

"There's no scorecard," Addison says firmly. "You know that."

"Yeah, I do know that." Amy just looks at her for a moment. "And I appreciate it, I really do. Okay, let me get going so I can get out early." She leaves her cup on the counter – for all the support Amy's provided with Vivian, in some ways she remains an overgrown teenager – and slings her bag over her shoulder.

"See you later, Vivi!"

Mark hits the kitchen from the back stairs just as the front door closes behind Amy.

"What did I miss?"

"Nothing." Addison pours him a cup of coffee. "Amy's going to pick up Viv."

"I thought you were – "

"I have an anxious patient who needs an appointment," Addison says, moving to wipe down the counter so she doesn't have to look at him. "I'm not going to be able to get out early."

"Your patients are always anxious," he says. "That's why I didn't go into OB."

"Oh, _that's_ why." She raises an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah. The only reason." He moves a strand of hair out of her face. "You can't get out early today, huh?"

His tone is casual, but she tenses anyway. "No, I already told you. And you heard my patient freaking out on the phone."

"I did," he says. He looks away for a moment. "Addie, I just think it wouldn't be a terrible idea to take a little – "

"Viv!" Addison grabs her glass of milk just in time. Vivian's too mature to accept a sippy cup most of the time, which is all well and good until she's wiping up wet shattered glass twice a week. "Be careful, sweetheart."

"I _am_ careful," Viv protests, as Addison wipes her milk mustache.

Mark is watching both of them. "I'll take Viv to school," he says. "You're officially off the hook."

She frowns a little, not loving the sound of that.

"It's an expression!" He leans in for a kiss, making her feel better.

"Me too," Viv giggles, pushing between them. Mark scoops her up and drops a kiss on her cheek before sending her out to get her socks on and pulling Addison back in for a much longer kiss.

…

"Needa's not here," Viv chatters as they walk hand in hand down the sidewalk. "Her mommy is far away. And she took a big plane."

Mark's not quite sure of the accuracy there, but he's always amused by Viv's preschooler version of logistics. Sometimes walking with her is like walking with a miniature version of his wife. Viv's not overscheduled, he doesn't think, certainly not like some of her classmates, but their morning walk always includes a download of their day.

"Daddy."

"Yeah, baby."

"What are you gonna be for Halloween?"

"Me?" He pretends to think about it. "How about … a tiger witch's daddy?"

She giggles at this. "That's not a costume."

"Oh. Well, then I'll have to think about it."

"You could be a doctor," she says, brightening. "'Cause you already have the costume."

"Good thinking. I will definitely consider it."

Viv fills the rest of the walk with chatter about her tiger witch costume. Her requests change daily, but so far he's fairly certain it involves a black leotard, orange boots – Addison will have to figure those out – and a tail.

Inside the imposing old gothic building, it's warm and welcoming. At least in the nursery wing; Mark's pretty sure the kids in the elementary grades look far more stressed out than any kids have the right to be. She's leaving St. Ig's this year anyway, headed to kindergarten next year. Hopefully with fewer miniature stress cases.

Then again, it's Manhattan, so everything is relative.

"Good morning, Vivian! Good to see you, Dr. Sloan!" Miss Emilia, who's in charge of the security book, smiles at them. "Now, I have Dr. Montgomery down for pickup today."

"Actually, it's going to be Dr. Shepherd," Mark says, "or that's the plan, anyway."

"Great. You know the drill. Any of the three of you can come," she says, "but we like to know ahead of time if we can, so that we're aware."

He nods. He can appreciate a desire for logistics.

"Daddy!" Viv is pulling at his shirt. He crouches down to say goodbye and she flings her arms around his neck.

"Be a good girl today, okay?" He kisses her and watches her run back into the circle of other little girls and boys, in brightly colored clothes with varying degrees of morning smiles.

…

Her assistant buzzes twice during a consultation. It's sufficiently unlike her that Addison steps out of the office after a sea of apologies and closes the door behind her.

"What is going – "

"Amy called." Her assistant is wringing her hands. "She's getting dragged into surgery and she can't pick Vivian up."

 _Fuck._

"But it's only twenty minutes to – "

"I know. That's why I buzzed you."

"Okay." Addison takes a deep breath, scrolling through her blackberry contacts. "I really can't leave, but if I have to – "

"I can reschedule your patients," her assistant offers hesitantly.

"If you want a riot on your hands." Addison sighs as she tries to figure out who to call. Mark's in the OR, Addison has a stack of patients, and now Amy's in surgery. Needa's three thousand miles away. Four adults and no one can –

"Here!" Addison alights on a number and starts dialing, bracing herself. "Halsey? It's Addison Montgomery. No, everything's fine, but we're having a little situation, and I was wondering if – yeah." She closes her eyes with relief. "That would be amazing, if Odalise really doesn't mind. Thank you so much."

…

"Addison Montgomery! it's _so_ great to see you. It's been _ages._ Come in, come in."

Addison is waved from the marble hallway into an oversized foyer with welcoming gestures, all highlighted hair, angular body and – protruding belly.

What's that she was saying about being stalked by pregnant women?

A fair bit of that is a hazard of the job, as her partner Farrah pointed out this morning, but she's not at work now.

"Oh my god, don't even look. I'm so fat already, it's disgusting."

Addison winces, hoping Halsey doesn't talk that way in front of her own daughter – or Addison's, for that matter.

There's a reason Halsey wasn't exactly first on her call list, but she was desperate and she can't complain.

Halsey Abbot, all practically-six-feet of her, is now wearing the same how-dare-things-be-imperfect expression looking down at her own baby bump that she does at every step and repeat Addison has seen. She's in charge of half the committees every season and still, somehow, pregnant.

Again.

"Can you believe it?" she exclaims, resting a hand on her bump, angled just-so to make her rings flash in the light of the chandelier. "Milo is only fourteen months. Thirteen months." She frowns a little. "Anyway, it was _so_ fast. But listen, enough about me. We were so thrilled to see Vivian today. It was such a surprise!"

She's smiling broadly, but Addison winces anyway, reading easily between the lines.

 _Translation: We were happy to fill in for your maternal neglect, since you're too busy being a surgeon to take care of your daughter!_

The fact that Odalise, Halsey's long-working and long-suffering nanny, who appears to be part octopus based on how she manages multiple children at a time, no doubt did all the work has nothing to do with it.

Addison smiles tightly. "I really appreciate it," she says. "Amy had an emergency surgery – "

"Doctors!" Halsey's eyes open wide, or as wide as the botox allows. "You do _so_ much. I can't even imagine it. It's enough for me just to keep this _sty_ clean." She gestures around the immaculate living room.

… which is actually kept clean by a high-paid staff, but who's counting?

Addison reminds herself that Caddie is one of Viv's favorite nursery school friends, second only to Sutton, whose mother is actually harder on the ears that Halsey.

So.

"You've been so kind to watch Vivian," Addison says. "We won't take up any more of your time. I'll just – "

"They're in the playroom," Halsey says, waving a manicured hand. "Vivi is adorable, Addison, I don't know how you keep all that long hair in check."

 _Translation: She's a mess and I would never let my daughter out of the house looking like that._

"Mm." Addison smiles.

"Her vocabulary is just so impressive too. I swear Caddie learns a new word every time they're together."

Addison prays silently that the words have more than four letters.

"And her reading!" Halsey pauses, leaning a little closer. "You _must_ tell me which tutor you've been using."

 _Translation: You're never home and your husband wears a leather jacket, so the only way you could raise a smart kid would be with professional help._

"We haven't," Addison says. "But, uh, if we do, you'll be the first to know."

"That's so sweet." Halsey smiles warmly at her.

 _Translation: If Vivian gets into a better school than Caddie, I will track you down and tear up her transcripts._

And then she takes a step closer, lowering her eyes, and Addison's posture stiffens. She knows this expression, and she doesn't want to deal with it.

Not today, not from Halsey Abbot, of all people.

"I'm so sorry about what happened," Halsey coos, glancing down at Addison's midsection. "I haven't really had a chance to tell you, and it's just – it's awful. I was sick about it."

 _Oh, was it hard for you?_

"Thank you," Addison says politely. She glances at her blackberry with purpose. "Oh, would you look at how late it is? Let me just grab Viv and we'll be out of your hair."

"Right." Halsey pauses. "You know, Addison, I've been meaning to call you, but it's just been so _hectic._ I've been seeing Eleni Stavros – on seventy-second."

"She's great," Addison says automatically. It's true, but it's not like she's going to trash another doctor, not when it means that Halsey is likely to –

"Oh, she _is._ She's been wonderful. But you know, she keeps saying I'm high risk. It's … well, really, it's offensive."

"It's not personal," Addison says. "You're of advanced maternal age, that's all."

 _No matter how young your new breasts are._

Halsey's smile falters a little. "If I could see someone a little more … familiar, with the issues."

"Eleni is terrific," Addison assures her. "I refer patients to her all the time."

Halsey just blinks at her.

It's Morse Code, maybe, for _I saved your ass when you couldn't even pick up your own kid, and you're going to refuse me this?_

"… but I'd be happy to see you, of course," Addison says, moving her lips into a smile. "Call my office and my assistant will fit you into my schedule."

"That is _so_ sweet of you. You're amazing, Addison, just amazing. I really don't know _how_ you do it," she gushes.

And then finally, blessedly, she escorts Addison to the playroom.

Play _castle_ more like it, set up like something between a medieval princess's lair and an acid trip after too many Disney movies. It's … lovely, if a little odd when sturdy little Caddie, in Addison's experience, seems to prefer building with blocks and hurling sand at passersby. She and Vivian are sitting on the thick rug together, piling enormous soft blocks into a tower. Caddie's little brother Milo, wearing a crown that's several sizes too big, is toddling between them and Odalise is settled in the glider a few feet away to supervise.

"Mommy!" Viv jumps up when she sees her, delighted, and runs in for a hug.

"Hi, sweetheart. Look at all this, you must have had such a fun afternoon."

"We're building a school," Vivian chatters. "A big one. You can go to it if you want."

"I would love to." Addison smiles down at her daughter. "Okay, sweetie, why don't you see if you can help Caddie clean up – "

The other child's sweet round face settles into puzzled lines, suggesting she's not accustomed to cleaning up her own toys.

" – and then we need to get going."

Viv's face falls.

 _Shit._

"Vivi – "

"I don't want to go!" her daughter shouts.

Addison winces. Somehow, Viv's mostly good behavior manages to crumble only when her working mother is under the scrutiny of one of her friends' not-so-much-working mothers.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see Halsey fluttering nearby, a look of concern trying to force its way through her Botox'd features.

"Vivi," Addison says, squatting carefully over her heels – pencil skirts were really not meant for eye-to-eye conversations with four-year-olds – "I know you had a good time playing this afternoon. Now it's time to go home. Say thank you to Caddie and her mom, please, and let's go."

Viv's face darkens.

There's no good way to do this. Addison thanks Odalise and Halsey, taking her daughter's hand – and then her arm, when Vivian wrenches her hand away – and leading her out the door before the actual storm hits.

Vivian refuses her jacket and punctuates the entire walk through the oversized apartment with heartbroken sobs, shoulders slumped as if she's being marched to the executioner.

Addison pushes unruly hair out of her own eyes as she ushers her unwilling daughter out of the apartment – relieved when the door closes behind them – and down the hall.

She reminds herself that it's been a long day for Vivian, with an unexpected playdate instead of her parents _or_ Amy picking her up.

"I don't want to go!" Viv shouts.

"Hush," Addison says firmly. "Other people live in this hallway."

Viv glares.

Addison reminds herself that it's hard to leave when you're having fun.

She can sympathize with that.

She can –

"Did you just kick me?"

Addison presses the elevator button as Vivian looks up at her defiantly. Yes, that sharp pain in her ankle is definitely traceable to the small pink canvas sneaker currently squeaking on the marble floors.

Addison's eyes widen. "That is _not_ okay. Vivian, do you hear me?"

The elevator doors open and Addison sees the exact moment her daughter contemplates escape. She grabs her faster than should be possible when she's holding a very large bag plus Viv's backpack plus her daughter's discarded little blue wool coat and lifts her up.

Of course there's a uniformed bellman in the elevator for no reason, since the machine is automatic, but she supposes it's helpful for show.

 _Show_ isn't something she's really succeeding at right now, since she and her daughter are both in disarray.

"Put me down!" Vivian shouts.

"Stop it. You do not yell in elevators," Addison says, keeping her voice as low as possible in an attempt to bring her daughter's down.

" _No_ , Mommy, I want to get down!" Viv pushes at her shoulders. "You're mean!"

"If you raise your voice again, you're not getting dessert tonight," Addison warns her quietly, hoping the bellman isn't listening to what feels like terribly ineffectual parenting.

"No!" Viv shouts, loudest of all, and when Addison raises her eyebrows she burst into noisy tears.

Addison winces, cursing the Abbots for living in a high rise, for making her ride thirty endless floors with an out of control four-year-old.

She tries to shift her grip a little, to rub her daughter's back and settle her down, but Viv is having none of it. She arches away from her touch, thrashing angrily in her arms … but at least she stays quiet until the elevator stops again.

Sixteenth floor.

 _Seriously?_

The elevator stops to pick up another passenger – who Addison is certain is judging mother and daughter.

And then it stops again.

By now Viv seems to have given over to the exhaustion that fueled her tantrum, whether out of fear of losing her beloved sweets or just plain wearing herself out.

She's not struggling anymore, just heavy and limp and shuddering a little in the aftermath of tears. Addison juggles her bags sufficiently to rub her daughter's back and Viv doesn't protest this time, her head lolling on her mother's shoulder.

There's no way to transport a half-asleep Viv other than a cab.

A light rain is starting to fall. It's chilly, and Addison wraps Viv's refused jacket around her shoulders.

Vivian sleeps heavily on her lap for the first fifteen traffic-laden minutes before she blinks blearily awake.

"Mommy?"

"Yeah." Addison strokes her hair. "Let's try to stay up, Vivi. It's too late for a nap."

"'kay." The brief slumber has drained any remaining fight out of her daughter. She's drowsy and cuddly for the next ten blocks – which account for twenty minutes – and then sits up on Addison's lap, her black mood apparently gone.

"Mommy. Guess what?" Viv holds onto her shoulders and starts to chat about her day.

Now she's happy.

 _Now, when there's no one to judge me._

But she can't hold it against her daughter, not when Viv is smiling up at her and playing with her necklace and being generally adorable.

She climbs off Addison's lap to slump more or less on top of her backpack, jogged a little when the cab stops at a red light.

"Vivi – " Addison guides her to sit up.

"Can we go to Traynor's?" she asks eagerly. "Can we pick up Daddy?"

"Daddy's still working, sweetheart. We're going to go home and Amy should be there by now. With dinner," Addison adds, since it's Amy's night and she texted with floods of apologies for missing pickup and a promise to have dinner there waiting.

Viv considers this.

"I'm hungry."

"You are?" Addison strokes one long pigtail. "Did you have a snack at Caddie's?"

Viv nods. "Kale chips," she recounts. "And cupcakes."

… sounds about right.

She's rising up onto her knees now, and she looks so cute in the back of the cab with her blonde hair blowing in the slight breeze from the cracked window that she can't help snapping a picture and sending it to Mark.

It's just because she's adorable, and she's theirs.

She's just capturing the moment, that's all.

Not trying to restart the conversation.

Vivian clambers back onto her lap – Addison's given up trying to make her sit still in cabs, and just lets the omnipresent traffic-induced low speeds protect them instead.

"Mommy." Viv has one little hand resting on either side of her face now. "Caddie has a baby brother. A big baby."

"Milo?" Addison smiles down at her daughter. "Yeah, he's gotten big."

"Not big like me and Caddie. He's still little," Viv explains. "Just big too. But he's _loud._ "

"That's how it usually goes. That's how it was with you."

"I wasn't loud!" Viv protests.

"You're right … that must have been another baby." Addison tugs her daughter down to settle against her chest. With her arms around her, at least it's something like a seatbelt.

"There's not another baby." Vivian is playing with her necklace again now. " _I'm_ the baby. … silly," she adds, her tone affectionate.

"That's me." Addison drops a kiss on the top of her head. "I'm silly."

"Mommy?"

"Yeah, Vivi."

"Can I have another baby brother? And he can live with us in my room?"

 _Another._

Addison swallows hard before she responds. "I hope so, sweetheart. We'll have to see."

"Why?"

"Because that's just how it is."

…

"Amy's dinner!" Viv claps her hands with delight as Addison fumbles for her keys on the stoop; understandably, since Amy's nights to cook tend toward Indian delivery and their local place can't seem to resist including desserts on the house.

But the house is empty.

Addison checks her blackberry, flicking on the lights in the darkened kitchen.

Hm.

"Up." Viv tugs at her hand like she's still tiny and Addison lifts her up.

"Where's Amy?" Viv asks.

"She must still be working." Addison shifts her daughter a little on her hip.

"Why?"

"Because doctors have to work a lot." She kisses Viv's smooth forehead. "And study a lot. And Amy is doing both."

"But I want dahl," Viv whimpers. "You said Amy was making dinner." Her lower lip trembles.

"We can still have dahl." Addison sets her daughter down on the counter. "You want to help me order?"

…

"I spy, with my little eye, something … grey," Addison says, pausing for a quick mouthful of saag while her daughter is occupied with the game.

Viv purses her lips, concentrating hard, and Addison cuts some more chicken into smaller pieces for her.

"The cabinet?" Viv asks.

"Nope."

"Oh." Viv tilts her head again, surveying the room. At Addison's gesture, she puts a few chickpeas on her fork and eats them.

"Do you give up?"

"No!" Viv is still thinking. "The picture!" she shouts after a moment. "The picture of the other house!"

Addison smiles. "You got it." The picture in question, the shingled house on Nantucket they mostly rent out, serves as the backdrop for a shot of Viv and Mark, sharing a bowl of blueberries on the green lawn. They both look marvelously happy and she never took the picture down from the fridge once she had it printed.

"That was a good one, Mommy." Viv chews thoughtfully on a bite of naan while she considers her next move.

"Okay. I spy, with my little eye," Viv recites, "something … black."

"Black," Addison says pensively. "Okay. All black, or part black?"

"Part," Viv says.

"Is it the espresso machine?"

"No."

"Is it the knobs on the oven?"

"No."

"Is it the big hooks?" Addison asks, gesturing up to the wrought-iron hooks from which a series of copper pots hang.

"Nope!" Viv beams, apparently pleased with the difficulty of her choice.

"I give up," Addison says.

"It's your shoes, Mommy!"

Addison looks down at her crossed legs. Her dangling foot is, indeed, still wedged into a pointed-toe pump.

"Good one, Vivi. That was tricky!"

"Yeah, tricky." Viv spoons some dahl and rice into her mouth, remembering to finish chewing before she speaks again. "You go now," she instructs.

They go back and forth like this for a while, Viv getting a little stuck on the _blue_ of the china Shepherdess that belonged to Addison's grandmother, who still keeps watch over them from the glassed-in cabinet. Addison has to give up on the _white_ of the stacked papers on Mark's work desk, and then Viv soars to victory on the _red_ of her little down vest, hanging on one of the Viv-heights hooks by the garden door.

It's Viv's turn again.

"I spy, with my little eye, something … Daddy!" Viv shouts.

Indeed, Mark is strolling into the kitchen, looking no worse for the wear after his long work day. It should annoy her … but she's used to it. Plus, she reaps the benefits too.

"Something Daddy, you said? I think I see it too," Addison teases.

"My two favorite girls." Mark leans in to kiss each of them in turn. "Eating away from the table, huh?" He grins at Viv, who is sitting cross-legged on the island looking happy as a clam. "Is it a holiday?" he asks teasingly.

"It's a Mommy Was Tired Day," Addison says. "And a Viv Was C-r-a-n-k-y Day.

It's hard to believe, since their formerly c-r-a-n-k-y daughter is now beaming at both parents, cheerfully spooning rice pudding into her mouth.

"Hey. Vivi." Mark waits for her to look up. "Were you good for Mommy today?"

"Uh-huh." Viv nods enthusiastically. "I was really good."

"I see." He pokes her gently in the ribs and she grins up at him.

Addison shrugs when Mark looks at her.

"She's an optimist?" he suggests, smiling, and then glances at the food. "Amy's night to cook dinner, huh?"

"It was, but she's not here."

"Ah." He peers into one of the cartons. "She's working?"

"Yeah. You remember fellowship."

"I do." Mark spoons some rice onto a plate. "No one ordered Indian food for me when I was a fellow."

"Actually … I'm pretty sure I did," she says lightly.

"Oh, yeah. You were always good like that." He pulls her into him and she can't be annoyed, can't be anything, when they're this close. He smells good, comforting and familiar, and she leans against him.

They stay around the island, Viv feeding Mark occasional spoonfuls of her kheer and chatting, mainly about the upcoming Halloween party at her preschool. It's her last year at St. Iggy's and the first one she's really been aware of celebrations – at least aware enough to plan ahead. She's been talking about her costume for weeks. Before that, it was her birthday.

And before that …

Well. It was thankful that her fourth birthday came when it did, when all of them needed distraction. Now, with Viv chatty and cheerful in the warm kitchen, giggling when Mark takes a bite of her pudding and nibbles on her hand too – now it's hard to remember anything but this. Anything but her family.

Even if it's smaller than it should be.

She pushes those thoughts out of her head; she's busy, anyway, no time to dwell. She's packaging up the food – no, leaving some out for Amy, who will be home eventually. She's lifting Viv down and sending her into the attached powder room to wash up. She's wiping down the island and joking with Mark about sanitation – he's teasing her with an old story she's half-forgotten about a diaper-clad Viv sitting on top of one of the antique Bradford –

"Sloans!" Amy blows in through the swinging door to the kitchen without warning. She's a little breathless, black leather jacket draped over her shoulders, and she looks pale. No wonder, after all she's been working lately, but her eyes are bright. "What's cooking, guys? No, literally, I mean it smells amazing in here, what's _actually_ cooking?"

Then the word _cooking_ seems to trigger her memory before anyone can answer her.

"Oh my god. I'm so sorry." Amy covers her mouth with her hands. "I'm _so_ sorry. You guys. I'm the worst. I totally forgot it was my night. After all that."

"Don't worry about it," Addison says. "We were fellows too once. We know how it goes."

"Now see, Addie, _you_ are the absolute best." Amy grins at her. "The yin to my yang. No wonder you're my favorite sister."

"Amy!" Viv calls, running out of the powder room and straight toward her. "Amy, you forgot dinner!"

Amy squats down and scoops her up. "I know. I'm the worst not-actually-an-aunt in the universe. Can you forgive me, Vivi? What do you think?" She tickles her ribs until Viv's giggles reach a crescendo.

Addison glances at Mark. It's close to bedtime and they were just encouraging their daughter to wind down … but then again, Viv and Amy are so cute together it's hard to intercede.

Amy is twirling her around now, Viv shrieking with laughter. "Do you forgive me now? How about now?"

"Again," Viv begs when Amy stops twirling.

"A glutton for punishment, huh? I respect that." Amy cradles Viv's head in one hand and spins faster. "The question is, _how_ am I going to make this up to you? How … how … how?" Amy is chanting. "Ooh, I've got it. Ice cream. I think it involves ice cream."

"Yeah!" Viv is beaming when Amy slows down, looking a little dizzy but enthusiastic nonetheless. "I want ice cream!" she shouts.

"Not tonight," Addison says quickly. "You already had the kheer, Vivi, remember?"

And she was going to withhold dessert too … that seems like ancient history now, though.

"But I want ice cream!"

Amy shoots Addison an apologetic look.

"Ooh, you know what? Tomorrow, Vivi," Amy says, tickling her. "Tomorrow I'll get home in time for dinner, and I'll bring you ice cream. Pink ice cream. I promise."

Viv looks much happier now.

"And don't forget – " Amy leans in close, widening her eyes.

"Tiger makeup!" Viv claps her hands with delight. "You got it?"

"Not yet," Amy says, "but I will get it. Hey, we still have tons of time before Halloween. And anyway," Amy says, still jouncing Viv on her hip, "it's going to be hard to be a tiger when you're … _upside down_!"

She flips her and Viv is shrieking with laughter again, her long hair brushing the kitchen floor

Addison exchanges a look with Mark. This riled up, it's going to be a nightmare to get Viv to bed.

…

There's a price for everything, in Mark's experience.

There are the bigger prices – like heating a house the size of a small country. And then the smaller – but no less painful – ones, like trading Viv's glee at seeing Amy for the inevitable comedown when she has to get ready for bed.

"Viv." Mark has wrestled her gently from Amy's arms, assuring her it's not her fault that Viv is so wound up – lying, fine, but Amy's high energy is one of the reasons Viv loves her, that they love her, so he can't really hold it against her. "It's time to calm down," he tells his daughter.

Vivian reacts about as well to this as any woman does to being told to calm down. Mark files this knowledge away for later and sighs. It's one of those growth milestones they forgot about in Dr. Spock.

"She needs a bath," Addison tells him in between Viv's angry shouts.

A bath is always the ticket to calming their daughter down; getting her upstairs is another thing. She's rigid with anger and then when he tries to get a better grip on her she slithers through his hands, sobbing.

What's gotten into her?

It's been a stressful few months – that's for sure. But Viv has adjusted remarkably well, at least as far as he can tell. She's occasionally cranky, and she's never been a great sleeper. But that's just par for the course. Bedtime always involves a few token protests, but she's fairly easy to bribe with a combination of routine and the ever-soothing presence of water. Bath, stories, tucked in with her panda whose smiling little pink mouth is an echo of Viv's own.

That's usually. Tonight, she's sitting on the kitchen floor, crying.

Mark and Addison exchange a glance.

His wife looks tired. Beautiful, but tired, and even though she has insisted on going forward as if everything is _fine_ , and snapping at anyone who doesn't think she's _fine_ , she's … tired for good reason.

"I've got this," Mark says, and accept her kiss of mixed relief and gratitude.

Vivian is less grateful, hitting him with her surprisingly sharp little fists when he scoops her up and heads for the stairs.

"I _don't_ want a bath!" she shrieks once they make it to the landing.

It's a cover argument if he's ever heard one, since Viv loves her bath – she loves the water, always has, and it's always guaranteed to calm her down. Unfortunately, she's managed to strategize that bath precedes bed, an activity she's never liked – and in rare tantrum mode, that connection sets her off like none other.

Viv is howling angrily, still flailing her little fists though less accurately now, while he makes his way down the hallway toward his and Addison's bedroom.

When he gets there, he dumps her on the big bed in their room and watches her thrash around for a few minutes, his arms folded.

"You done?" he asks when she seems to be fading out.

"No!" she shouts.

"Then finish up, because you need a bath."

Predictably, Viv melts down again, sobbing angrily and kicking the mattress as he runs the water in their oversized tub. Vivian can usually be tempted by a bath in their bathroom, which they use as a combination bribe-salve when needed. But when she's this far gone – it's rare, but it happens.

The storm seems to have passed by the time he pads back into the bedroom. Viv is sitting up on their bed now, her breath still hitching in the aftermath of her tantrum. Her lower lip trembles as he approaches.

"Okay, Vivi, bath time." He holds out his arms. "Come on."

"Get my ducks first," she barters tremulously as she climbs into his arms. There are tears clinging to her long eyelashes and her little chest is heaving from the exertion of her tantrum.

He kisses one of her wet cheeks. "Get my ducks, _please_ ," he corrects her, but he carries her down the hall to her bathroom anyway to get the necessary bath toys. Then he plunks his now-calm daughter into the tub of warm water with a vast array of ducks and lowers himself into the chaise to watch her.

…

"Don't quote me on this … but I _think_ there might be peace up there," Amy says, angling an ear toward the second floor. She grins. "I don't hear any more screaming. My god, it's the Treaty of Versailles. Even if it sounded a little more like Normandy." She pauses. "Am I mixing metaphors? Or just wars?"

Addison shakes her head. Amy's energy is characteristic, and amusing, but she still feels defensive of her daughter's unusual behavior.

Of course Amy knows Viv. With anyone else she'd feel compelled to defend her daughter, _she's not usually like this,_ and she's not – Vivian is many, many things: smart and funny, loving and quick, surprisingly solemn sometimes, independent, so much her own person that it takes their breath away sometimes. And she can be cranky, passionate about staying awake instead of asleep. Still, tantrums are a relative rarity, and there are few a bath can't soothe.

And Amy _knows_ her.

And …

"It's my fault," Amy says matter-of-factly, tearing a samosa in half. "I know I shouldn't have riled her up. But I haven't seen her all day and she was being really cute."

Addison can't argue with that. She loves Amy's relationship with Vivian, loves being able to give her daughter the combination big sister-aunt she won't find in Addison's family.

"It's fine, Amy. Really. It's not like she actually needs an excuse to disapprove of bedtime. And she had a long day." Addison sets down her coffee. "I'm going to go check on them," she says. "You … relax," she says, even though _relax_ and _Amy_ aren't really a natural word association.

Upstairs, she finds Viv is splashing happily in the big bathtub. Her eyes are rimmed with red from her earlier tears, but she's calm and cheerful now, waving to her mother with a rubber duck in each hand.

Mark smiles up at her from the chaise and the familiar way his eyes crinkle – the same way Viv's do – makes her heart flip over.

"You're a miracle worker." She kisses him. "I knew I married you for a reason."

"Yeah?" He pulls her down to sit with him. "You needed a reason?"

"No," she admits as he wraps his arms around her.

Vivian is carrying on her own game, laughing happily as she splashes in the oversized tub, lining up her ducks.

"This is the mama duck," she chatters, holding up one of them for her parents to see. "And the daddy."

He's wearing a sailor hat, and Addison presses a hand over Mark's mouth to muffle what she's convinced will be an off-color comment about that designation. He kisses her palm in response.

"Where's the Vivi duck?" Mark asks once he can speak again.

"It's not a Vivi duck, it's a _regular_ duck," their daughter says patiently. "A girl duck. Here." She holds up another one. "And the baby brother duck."

She lifts hopeful blue eyes to her parents. "This one, see? He's little."

"He sure is."

Addison leans against her husband, who wraps an arm around her and kisses the top of her head.

"Mommy?"

"What is it, sweetie?"

"Will I have a brother again?"

It's quiet in the bathroom for a moment, the splashes echoing off the walls.

"I hope so, someday," Addison says finally. She feels Mark's muscles tense a little underneath her, but he doesn't say anything.

"Caddie has one."

"I know, Vivi."

"I _had_ one," Viv says thoughtfully, leaning back a little as her piled up blonde hair shifts precariously on top of her head. "But he's not here anymore. Right?"

"Right," Addison says faintly.

 _Then why does it feel so wrong?_

They've followed everything the child psychologist told them to do. To say. Haven't they?

She feels Mark's arm tighten a little more around her.

"Mommy," Viv starts to say.

"Hey, Vivi." Mark's gruff voice interrupts. "Check it out." He points. "I think your police duck is after someone."

Viv is easily distracted, scooping up the yellow rubber duck with a blue just-as-rubber police hat – a semi-ironic gift from Amy, of course.

"He's not after someone!" she protests indignantly. "He's _swimming._ "

"Ah. My mistake." Mark smiles at her. "As you were," he says.

Addison relaxes against him and it's peaceful enough that they let Viv play past the point of wrinkled fingers until they're butting right up against bedtime.

When she's finally ready to get out they wrap her in a big fluffy towel with rabbit ears – she has a few of these, including one from Amy that's shark-headed – and then pile back on the chaise. Vivian snuggles against her mother and then grabs her father's hand, pulling his arm tighter around her.

Addison strokes her daughter's soft damp cheek, watching her long eyelashes flutter half-closed, maybe soothed by her mother's heartbeat. Viv has been curling up in the same spot since she was tiny.

She didn't know it was possible to love someone this much. She's loved many times in her life – passionately. Blindly. Even stupidly. But Viv's arrival, her first red-faced screams and the way she squalled when they placed her in her arms, calming down as soon as she got her first soothing bath – it knocked her off her feet.

Of course it's enough. Her daughter is more than she ever expected or hoped – there is no _enough._ She cuddles the warm damp bundle of her against the emptiness in her body.

And then it's the rest of their bedtime routine, Addison giving Mark a chance to relax – to _tag out_ , as he likes to say – while she escorts Viv patiently through brushing her teeth and combing out her hair.

"Close your eyes, Vivi."

She sprays her hair with detangler – whatever it is, she doesn't ask. Needa buys it and as far as she's concerned, it's magical.

Slowly, carefully, she combs out the tangles. It's their ritual, just for them, and when it's Mark's turn to put her to bed Viv will either keep her hair messy and let Addison take care of it in the morning or run and find her, in pajamas or sometimes in nothing at all, holding her comb.

"Your hair is getting long, sweetheart."

"Yeah," Viv says contentedly. "Really long."

With silky hair and adorable striped pajamas, Viv is ready for bed.

Except – now she's missing.

"Vivi!" Addison chases her out into the hall, still holding the books she was planning to read. She finds her halfway up the staircase to the closed door that leads to the third floor. "No, sweetheart, that's Amy's space, you know that. Come down here."

"But I want to say good night!"

"Viv – "

She's scampering up the rest of the stairs and knocking on the door to the third floor with one small fist anyway.

No one answers.

"Amy!" Vivian calls through the door.

"Viv, that's enough." Her daughter's hand is on the doorknob, presumably about to rattle it. "Amy had a long day and she's probably sleeping – as you should be, too."

"But I didn't get to say goodnight."

Addison briefly considers telling her she missed that opportunity when she had a tantrum in the kitchen after dinner, but thinks better of it.

"It's okay, Vivi, you'll say goodnight to her tomorrow. It's bedtime."

Viv glances at her, then rattles the doorknob.

" _Vivian._ " Addison props her hands on her hips. "Come down here right now or no story."

Viv turns around, a look of shock on her face. "No story?" she repeats, suddenly the picture of innocence, her lower lip trembling.

In spite of herself, Addison is awash in guilt.

"You can still have a story if you come down right now. Come on." She holds out her hand and Viv trots down the stairs.

As far as Addison can tell, she's followed through on zero consequences so far today. Her daughter has melted down more than once and the dreaded bedtime looms. It's hard not to feel like a terrible mother.

Except it's hard to think she's _that_ terrible when Viv clambers on the bed next to her and cuddles close, her face sweet and loving, falling asleep halfway through the first story with one of her arms flung over her mother's midsection.

…

"She's asleep," Addison announces, closing the bedroom door behind her.

"Now who's the miracle worker?" Mark calls from bed, waiting for her to emerge from the hallway that leads to their sleeping area.

"Her teachers, hopefully. She's going to be in a mood tomorrow."

"Maybe," he says. "Maybe not."

He props up on his elbow as she starts unbuttoning her blouse, not ashamed that he's watching her change.

"Mark." She sees him when she turns around, both arms behind her back as she prepares to unhook her bra. The position is a great one from his point of view, all black lace and creamy white skin. He admires her and she laughs a little, self-consciously, and then disappears into the en suite bathroom.

When she comes out she's wearing silk pajamas.

"What?" she asks when he looks at her. "You don't like these?"

"I don't _not_ like them," he says. "They just – cover a lot."

She lifts an eyebrow at him and then pulls back the covers on her side of the bed.

He's been patient and she's been appreciative. It's been two months, but it doesn't seem like grief that's making her avoid him, or depression.

Frankly, they had more sex in the last month and a half of her pregnancy than they had in a while before that, and certainly after. It was understandable; it was the first time in ages that she wasn't taking some kind of drugs, wasn't in some way restricted.

Twelve weeks of progesterone, injections of oil that he didn't quite understand and didn't much like, not when they made her as uncomfortable as they did. He did his part – research, manning the heating pads and the ice packs, massaging the lumps that would form under the perfect curves of her skin.

It was worth it, that was what they told themselves. It was worth it for their baby.

And then – the pregnancy took.

Twelve weeks into their son's development her body was making sufficient progesterone to maintain life and just like that, the needles were gone. The heating pads went back in the linen closet, the icepacks were relegated to the freezer. The second trimester arrived with a bang, with all the glorious hormonal spikes he remembered from the first time.

She was insatiable, pouncing on him whenever she could, showing up at his office once without –

And he enjoyed it. _God_ , he enjoyed it. He drank greedily, knowing it couldn't last.

Now he slips his hand under her pajama top, gently rubbing the warm skin of her back. Contact with her bare flesh is electric; his body strains for more even as he tries to warn it not to hope.

"Mark…."

"I'm sorry." He keeps stroking her back, rubbing circles with his palm, soothing. No pressure. "I can't help it, Addison."

"I know." She sounds a little flattered. "I'm, uh, I'm not sure I'm ready, though." She pauses. "Is that okay?"

Is it okay if they don't have sex? It's the IVF husband's version of _when did you stop beating your wife?_

As in … there's no good answer.

"Whatever you need," he says.

She burrows close to him and he treasures her nearness. He's the self-conscious one now, knowing he can't control his body's response to her. Not when she's thrown a leg over his, and he's aching to touch the impossibly soft skin of her thighs.

He doesn't push it. Of course he doesn't. He traces her spine with one hand, holding her close with the other.

"I'm sorry," she whispers into his neck. "Mark … I'm sorry. This isn't fair to you."

"Addie." He strokes her hair, feeling helpless. Nothing he says can be right, not about this.

"I want you to be … satisfied," she says. "You deserve that. It's the least you deserve."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she says. "We'll talk about it another time."

…

Vivian wakes them at first light, apparently not as tired from yesterday as her parents are, bouncing on the bed.

"Good morning to you too." Mark hefts her little body onto Addison's side. "Addie … delivery for you."

Viv climbs delightedly over her mother. "Mommy, wake up. It's breakfast time."

Addison is awake now, holding Viv's hands while she sits on top of her like a very small victorious captor. "Are you hungry, sweetheart?"

"No," Viv says, "but it's _breakfast time._ "

Mark is amused, and a little sympathetic when he sees Addison's tired eyes. "Vivi." He holds out his arms. "Come on, baby, we'll put the kettle on and let Mommy get a little more rest."

"Why?" Viv asks, though she climbs agreeably into his arms. "And what's a kettle?"

…

There's something about that extra five or ten minutes of sleep, maybe knowing that her husband and daughter are occupied sweetly in the kitchen downstairs, morning light trickling in through the bedroom windows.

Whatever it is, she feels much more rested when she wakes, enough to appreciate the sunny kitchen that smells like espresso and her daughter's big smile when she sees her. Amy is there too, sitting on the kitchen island like the big sister she sometimes seems to be, swinging her legs and chugging a coffee that she doubts is her first.

Viv, on the other hand, is seated nicely at the breakfast nook, spooning cereal into her mouth. She picks up a blueberry with her fingers, glances at her mother, and then sets it out and reluctantly uses her fork. Addison hides a smile.

"I'm a bad influence on her," Amy jokes, draining her cup of coffee. "Silverware? It's just such a hassle."

"Thank you, for that." Addison smiles. Amy seems rested too, bright eyed and alert. Addison remembers Viv's attempt at a late-night coup.

"Amy – I'm sorry if Viv bothered you last night."

"Last night?" Amy looks confused.

"She was knocking on your door at – bedtime," Addison says, not quite ready to admit how late they let her stay up last night. "I stopped her, but I thought it might have woken you up."

"I didn't hear a thing," Amy assures her. "You know I sleep like the dead, Addie, don't worry. Plus, Vivi's welcome up there."

"With supervision," Addison reminds her. It's their deal so they don't have to childproof another floor. Amy has all kinds of things out that Viv shouldn't touch, expensive electronics, glittering jewelry, breakable perfume bottles, a realistic-looking resin skull that's a souvenir from – something. Amy hangs out with them on the first floor, and swears she prefers it, tending to disappear to her floor only at night or in intense periods of study. She's been spending more time up there lately, though, Addison has noticed. Since Julian, since that terrible day. Probably giving them space – Amy's thoughtful like that.

"Don't give it another thought." Amy sets down her coffee cup. "I'm going to head in _but_ I'll see you later. I'm picking Vivi up. But for real this time."

"Amy, no. Sebastian's nanny already offered. You have work."

"It's _fine_ , Addie. I already told them." She holds up her blackberry. "See? It's a digital world now. I don't even have to show my face to get permission. Come on – let me make it up to you."

Addison nods, trying not to feel guilty. This week without Needa has been challenging – she rebuffed the idea of substitute full-time child care but she's not going to be so hasty for Needa's next vacation. She must have been taking for granted the luxury of having someone on call, of not having to juggle blackberries and schedules just to figure out who's going to pick up one small girl.

One small girl who is now kneeling up in the breakfast nook; she pouts a little when Addison points to the bench but reluctantly settles down on her bottom.

Addison sits down across from her. "Finish your breakfast, sweetheart."

" _Amy's_ gonna come get me from school," Vivian is chattering, between bites of cereal. "And she's getting my tiger witch makeup too."

Addison glances at Amy. Another thing on the list, but Amy said a few times there was a Ricky's just down the block from the hospital and she wanted to get it. This was her project with Viv, and Addison didn't want to interfere.

"There's plenty of time before Halloween, honey," she reminds her daughter. "Even if Amy doesn't get the makeup today, you'll have it."

"But she's getting it today," Vivian protests. "She _said._ "

"You heard the kid." Amy grins and blows Vivian a kiss, popping out after swearing up and down once more she'll be there to pick her up after school.

The rest of the morning is a pleasant blur of ordinary chaos, catching spills before they happen, snagging Viv on her circuits through the first floor to corral her into socks and shoes, trading daily schedules and planning for the evening.

It's Addison's turn for the school run and Vivian's in a great mood, energetic, tugging on her mother's hand when she's too slow and then freezing if she spots something interesting on the street. She pauses to watch the construction – of course there's construction, and Addison is amused to see a line of strollers and preschoolers staring in fascination at the big yellow digger and the men in hard hats.

"What are they building?"

 _Hopefully not a high rise._

"I don't know, sweetheart. What do you think?"

"I think … a school," Viv says thoughtfully. "Or a cookie shop."

"A cookie shop?"

"Yeah, like Sweet Pea. Amy and I went yesterday."

Addison smiles at her daughter. _Yesterday_ , in Viv's parlance – developmentally appropriate, as she knows – could be anywhere from the day before to the year before, or more.

"Was it good?" she asks.

"So good," Viv says reverentially. "It was really far, we took the train and we didn't get seats and I held onto Amy like _this._ " She raises her two small hands and contorts them into gripping fists.

The story doesn't ring a bell, but Addison reminds herself that it could have happened any time since Viv started forming memories.

"What else did you do?" she asks, taking her daughter's hand to encourage her to walk.

"We saw Amy's friend. He's a boy!"

Addison is intrigued. In her experience, Amy has shown no interest in dating, not in any of the residents she or Mark has tried to set her up with. They don't want her to be lonely, but _there are more important things than sex_ , that's what she said, eyebrow lifted, when they asked her about it.

It's not like she and Mark had a great comeback for that.

"In the park," Viv is chattering, "with the checkers." She pauses. "The _big_ checkers."

Chess, then.

"Vivi," she begins.

"Mommy! Can we go to the park too? And go on the swings?" Her eyes are wide with excitement.

Addison's heart melts at her sweetness. "Not this morning, baby. Miss Cora and Miss Ellery are expecting you at school, and all your friends … ."

"Yeah." Viv skips a few steps, then looks up at her mother. "Tomorrow?" she asks hopefully.

It's the perfect opposite of _yesterday_ , meaning _anytime in the future_ , so it's easy to say yes to her daughter and get a big, eye-crinkling smile in return.

…

The rest of the day, after kissing her daughter goodbye in the charmingly chaotic great room of her preschool, is a blur of consultations and exams. She sees two new patients and makes it through one brutal statistic after another – couched in optimism and hope – before she finally sinks onto her office couch with a cup of coffee.

It's been a long day.

She came back to work as soon as she could, with no desire to sit at home nursing an empty womb waiting for her cervix to close. Her body ached, and her heart, but it wouldn't do to dwell on it. How many patients had she nursed through miscarriages, ones far later and more tragic than hers? Repeated ones? She had no business moping over hers.

Not when she had a unicorn of her own – a surprise pregnancy, perfectly healthy, at 38, delivered vaginally with no complications at 39. Gravida 1, para 1. 1-1, the perfect ratio.

That was then.

Now … now is now, and she doesn't dwell on the darling little boys' clothes that kept catching her eye in the windows of Bonpoint and Jacadi when she strolled hand in hand with Vivian. She was visibly pregnant, walking with her adorable daughter, and the eyes on her were envy, or at least admiration.

That was then.

Julian was real. She held him in her arms – and Vivian held him, too, at her insistence and over Mark's protests. He gave in eventually, and they spent an all-too-short series of heartbreaking moments as a family of four.

 _Three months_ , that's how long she's supposed to wait to try again.

Three cycles.

Mark is encouraging her to wait longer, to let her body heal.

He doesn't understand.

They're exactly the same age, born barely two months apart. But Mark is as rock solid as he ever has been, his muscles sculpted from lifting weights, his midsection lean from running in the park. Any lines in his face make him look wise, and no less chiseled.

In short, he's perfect.

And she's … well, she's not 39, that's for sure.

To think she felt old at 39. Now, every line seems deeper, her skin looser. She's self-conscious, avoiding his touch, and she knows it bothers him. She's let him think, perhaps unfairly, that it was because of the miscarriage.

But it's not. Her cervix is closed, her body healed.

The problem is that it's not the body he fell in love with, the one that used to drive him crazy, and it doesn't matter how many Pilates classes she takes and it doesn't matter how many times he assures her he wants her.

It's not the same.

…

She's operating at two, so her assistant calls St. Iggy's to confirm pickup. It's not anxiety, it's _normal_ , in Manhattan anyway because no one has ever questioned it.

Addison calls as soon as she's scrubbed out, still a little breathless.

"Amy got her, Dr. Montgomery. Don't worry."

She wasn't worried.

Was she?

She's relieved now, though, sending Amy a quick text of thanks once she's recovered her bag from her office. There are patients waiting for her – scheduled ones and the ones she squeezed in – before she can go home.

…

The phone rings while she's finishing up her last chart of the day.

"Where are you?" Mark asks.

"I'm in my office," Addison says, a little confused. "Why?"

"Because I'm _outside_ your office. I had a consult at St. Gregory's."

"Oh!" She sounds pleased now. "You want to come in? I need a few more minutes before I can go."

He has the code for the front door and she buzzes him in the rest of the way. She can hear him talking to her assistant in the waiting area, of course, probably charming the pants off her as usual.

Not literally … but still.

"Hi." She crosses the room when she sees him framed in her doorway and he pulls her in for a kiss. "How was your day?"

"Long," she says. "But about to be finished. I hope. Did Amy send you the picture?"

Mark smiles. "Yeah. What were they baking?"

"I don't know, but it looked perfectly messy – no wonder Viv looked so happy."

Addison looks up at him. "I think Amy's been working too much," she says.

Mark blinks. He doesn't hang out with shrinks, not since he became persona non grata on Kathleen Shepherd's invite list, but he did go to medical school and this is textbook _projection_ if he's ever heard it.

"Amy's been working too much," he repeats doubtfully, trying not to put too much stress on the word _Amy_.

"Yes. You know how stressful fellowship is, and we're putting demands on her, with childcare …."

"They're not demands, Addie. She offers. And this week is different, with Needa gone."

"I know." Addison tucks her hair behind her ears. "I'm just saying. Do you disagree?"

"No," he says carefully. "I think working too much is … an issue. You know. Work-life balance and all that."

"Work-life balance." Addison raises her eyebrows. "What's that?"

"Point taken." He kisses her cheek. "You packed up? Let's get home and we can relieve Dr. Amy."

It's a nice walk, a straight shot down Park Avenue. The sun's halfway to set – it's fall now, getting on in temperature with shorter days and crisper air. Addison shivers a little and he pulls her closer. She tucks her hand into his arm and leans her head on his shoulder as they wait for the walk sign a few blocks from home.

"We could pick up dinner," she suggests.

"Sure. Let's stop in and see what the hungry hordes are in the mood for."

He pushes open the heavy front door.

It's dark in the great room. Maybe they're upstairs.

"Vivi?" Addison calls. "Amy?"

Mark flicks on the switch and the room floods with light.

Illuminating the couch, where Amy is curled up, asleep.

He and Addison exchange a nervous glance. "Is she sick?" Addison asks. "Where's Viv?"

"I don't know. Amy!" Mark kneels down in front of her, confused and alarmed. "Amy, what's wrong?"

"What's – " She opens her eyes blearily. "Oh my god. Oh my _god._ I fell asleep," she moans. "I'm so sorry. I can't believe it."

"Amy, where's Viv?"

Addison is already jogging up the stairs, calling for their daughter.

"I'm sorry, Mark. I'm so sorry." Amy is grabbing at the sleeve of his coat, which he shrugs off. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Mark says, heart pounding in spite of himself. Addison is going to kill him. Or her. Or both of them. Or more likely herself for not hiring professional childcare this week. He tries not to imagine how much damage an unsupervised Viv could have done in – however long Amy was asleep.

There's a picture book face down on the couch, an abandoned sippy cup. They must have been reading together. He can't judge too harshly, he's certainly fallen asleep reading to his daughter before.

But what if Viv fell asleep too – she hasn't been sleepwalking, not for a few weeks now, which usually heralds a clear stretch. But then again ….

"Amy." He touches her arm. She's a little clammy, matching her sleep-flushed face. "Did you see where Viv went, maybe? Upstairs?"

"We were reading," Amy says, rubbing her eyes. "We were reading, and then … _god_ , I'm sorry. I was so tired."

"It's okay. We've all done it." He smiles at her as reassuringly as he can considering he hasn't heard anything from upstairs yet.

"Mark!" Addison calls down from the top of the stairs, as if she's read his mind. "She's up here!"

Thank god. Addison sounds relieved, not panicked.

"She's okay," Amy says, smiling broadly. "Right? She's okay."

"Right." Mark looks at her curiously. She's gripping his sleeve now, white-knuckled. "Amy – "

"Oh, _shit._ I forgot to get the makeup," Amy says abruptly. "The Halloween makeup, for Viv. Fuck."

"It's okay." Mark frowns at her, hoping she censors herself a little better when his daughter is listening. "Don't worry about it. Amy – are you sure you're feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," she says, and before he can stop her she's up, shrugged back into her leather jacket, and the front door is closing behind her.

A little confused, he glances into the kitchen – it's a disaster area, flour and sugar and god knows what all over the island, but that's par for the course and he'll deal with it later. The oven is off, thank god.

"Mark?"

"I'm coming!" When he mounts the stairs he finds Addison kneeling on the second floor landing, her face white. Viv is sitting on the bottom stair that leads to the third floor, looking a little glum, presumably as a result of getting scolded.

"I was so scared," Addison whispers.

"I know. Me too. But she's fine. Right?" Mark smiles at his daughter. "How much damage did she do?" he asks Addison.

"Surprisingly … none."

"Oh, yeah? She must be losing her – Viv!" he shouts, because his daughter's sad little face has suddenly gone slack, her chin tipping forward.

"Mark?" Addison is in front of their daughter now, holding her face, her voice sliding into panic. "What's going on?"

"I don't know. I don't _know_ ," he repeats when she repeats her frantic question. He pushes her aside and grabs Vivian off the stair, sitting back down and holding her on his lap. "Viv. Look at me. What's wrong?"

"She was fine," Addison is panting, sounding terrified. "She was a little quiet when I found her but I thought that was because she knew she was in trouble – the door to the third floor was open – "

He's been talking over her, trying to get Viv to snap out of it, but they both stop talking at the same time.

"She was up there alone," Addison whispers. "She could have been. She must have been. Mark!"

Mark has to ignore her frantic high-speed chatter; he focuses solely on Viv's pale face, patting her cheek firmly. "Viv. _Vivian_."

Her eyes are open but drooping; she looks sluggish, like she's been awakened mid-nap. Except Addison found her awake.

"Viv, answer me." He taps her harder and this gets her attention; without opening her eyes any further, she starts to cry weakly.

Growing desperate, he grabs each of her hands in turn, unfolding them to see if she's holding anything. She's not. Her head slumps forward on his chest until he grabs it.

"Mark, she must have done something, she must have done something up there!"

He ignores her. "Viv. Tell me what you did." He's holding her face between his hands firmly as she whimpers. "Did you touch something? Did you put something in your mouth? Vivian!"

"No," she whimpers, and Mark is weak with relief to hear her voice.

Addison is still frantic, pulling at his arm. "She must have, Mark, look at her – "

"Okay, listen, Vivi. You have to tell me what you did." He keeps his voice as calm as he can. If she's talking, alert, then fine. But she could have done anything up there. He thinks about all the things he and Addison keep secured, locked up away from tiny fingers on the childproofed first and second floors. Cosmetics. Electronics. Drugs.

The word makes the back of his neck prickle. Pharmaceuticals, that's all he means. Aspirin without childproof caps. That kind of thing.

There is no other _drugs._ That was a hundred years ago, a teenaged Amy who left a trail of pills and misery in her wake. A different person. The problems Amy had later, a couple of years ago, she kept away from them. It's too farfetched.

"Stop it," Viv is mumbling, pushing at his hands.

This is Vivian. Mark has seen her take a lick of shaving cream like it's vanilla ice cream, despite being told off for it more than once, and that was while he was watching her.

And now she was unsupervised.

"Vivi. Come on, baby, you need to tell us what you did. What were you doing on the third floor?"

"I _didn't_ ," she whimpers.

Addison has pushed past them to mount the stairs and Mark hears her cry his name.

"What is it? What did you find?"

"Just this," she says, "right on the landing, but I don't know what's in it, if she ate it …."

Mark looks at what she's holding out – a little gold and glass jar with the top screwed back on in misaligned, preschooler fashion. It looks vaguely familiar. "What is – "

"Moisturizer." Addison looks a little embarrassed. "It looks like mine, I must have given Amy her own at some point."

Mark takes the jar from her. "What the hell is in it?"

"Nothing. I don't know!"

He holds the jar in front of his daughter. "Vivi. We know you touched this. It's okay, you're not in trouble, I just need to know. You need to tell me right now."

"No, I didn't," she whimpers.

"Viv!" He raises his voice, holding her hard when she tries to get away, and she's crying now. "We need to know what you did. This is important. Did you think it was candy? Did you eat what's in here?"

He gives her a little shake and she's crying harder now.

" _Mark_." Addison is stroking Vivian's hair, pulling it away from her face. He ignores her, too terrified right now to be gentle.

"Vivian. What did you do?" he repeats. It can't be that bad, Addison is obsessed with all natural products and – but they're not supposed to be eaten, and Viv is pale and sluggish.

And he's nauseated.

"Vivi, _please._ "

"Didn't eat," she whimpers.

"Okay, good, but what _did_ you do? Viv?"

She mumbles something he can't understand.

"Say it again." He taps her cheek. "Viv – "

" _Makeup_ ," she repeats, and he understands it this time.

"I know, it looks like Mommy's makeup," Addison says soothingly. "Did you put it on your lips?" She looks nervously at Mark. "Vivi? Where did you put the cream, baby?"

"Not cream," she mumbles. "Powder."

Addison shakes her head. "No, it's – "

Their eyes meet. He can barely hear her over the pounding of his heart as she grabs the little jar and rips off the cap.

There's no moisturizer inside.

Just a dusty coating of white powder.

Addison's eyes are terrified. "She thought it was – it must have been – _Mark_ , she must have thought it was face powder."

"What does that – "

"It's on her face. It's on her _face_!"

Mark looks again at his daughter's tear streaked cheeks and then down at his own hands in growing horror. There's a thin sheen of white powder on them.

It's not just pallor.

It's on her cheeks.

It's on the front of her shirt.

It's on her _nose._

Fuck.

 _Fuck._

He grabs his daughter up and carries her down the hall, stripping her clothes off the moment they're in the guest bathroom and tossing them aside. Addison is on his heels, terrified, and Viv shrieks when he pushes her under the shower's spray; he holds her in the tub despite her struggles, washing her face and hands vigorously while she screams and Addison tries her best to comfort her.

"Mark, you have to do something, you have to do something – "

"I'm trying, damn it, would you shut up – "

He has his fingers in Viv's mouth, swiping it clean and getting bitten in the process.

"It's okay, Vivi, calm down," he mutters. It's too late to hide their fear from her.

But then she does calm down.

She goes quiet – and it's worse.

"No, baby, you have to stay awake," Mark instructs her sharply. "It's not nap time, Vivi. Come on."

"You think it's okay? She didn't ingest any of it? Mark?"

"I don't _know_ , Addie." He holds a towel-wrapped Viv on his lap, looking at her eyes. All three of them are soaking wet at this point.

Are her pupils the same as they were before? He's too frightened to be clinical, too parental to be a doctor right now.

"Vivi. _Vivi._ "

Then with no warning, Viv's head lolls.

She's not talking anymore.

Addison screams wordlessly; she's frantic, pulling at her, and then everything is a fast terrifying blur and he's forcing his finger back in her mouth, making her vomit, but she's still not responsive.

This isn't real.

It can't be happening.

But it's happening.

Viv is dangling limp from his arms, spattered with vomit and when Addison tries to call an ambulance her hands are shaking so badly she drops the phone.

"Forget it!" He grabs her arm, alert again. "We're faster," he says. "Schuy Hill's barely a block. Let's go!"

They tear down the stairs and he wraps Viv in the first thing he can grab – it's one of Addison's sweaters, covering the towel – and then he's running out the door, Addison hot on his heels, down the two blocks to the Schuyler Hill ER.

They shove past pedestrians and passing strollers on the darkened street and no one gives them a second glance because it's Manhattan. But he's yelling anyway.

"Let me through. Let me _through_!"

He's still yelling in the unnatural brightness of the ER, still yelling when they take her out of his arms and spread her on a table, white coats leaning over her.

Too many of them, too many doctors, not a good sign.

His baby.

It can't be.

 _Four-year-old female, possible overdose! I need a kit, STAT!_

Addison is weeping inconsolably next to him, hanging onto his arm, but she feels very far away, buzzing in his head like this is a nightmare.

 _Pulse is thready. We're getting swelling in the throat, most likely narcotic-induced. What the hell did she take?_

Except it's not, because he doesn't wake up.

"Bag her!" One of the doctors is yelling. "Get those labs right now," and then he's flung off his gloves and he's in front of them, jerking down his mask so they can hear him better. "What can you tell us about what she might have ingested? _Sir._ Hello?"

"I don't – I don't know," he stammers.

"Take a guess," the doctor snaps.

Mark and Addison exchange a glance. Amy's drug of choice, the last time.

"Oxycodone," Mark says, the word catching in his throat. "It could have been – "

"Oxy. Christ. Stay here!" the doctor snaps when they try to follow him, and then he's back at Viv's side, the curtain is being drawn and they're being shoved back.

They pump her stomach and it's an agony of charcoal and blood and Viv's pale moon face when the curtain is pulled back. They flood her with fluids, supply oxygen, and they're frozen in place while a whirlwind of strangers in scrubs try to help their daughter.

"Mark," Addison is whispering his name, sounding utterly broken. Her whole body is shaking, she's still wet. "Mark, if she's not okay – "

"She's going to be okay," he says fiercely. "She has to be."

He's lying.

He doesn't believe it.

He's seen pediatric overdoses before, as an intern at New York Central manning the pit overnight. They're fine one minute and then they're talking nonsense, their lips are swelling. They're dying. They're dying and interns who think they know everything are looking on in horror that anyone could be so _stupid_ as to let this happen to their child.

They're being shoved out of the way again, he's holding on tightly to Addison, his shirt wet with her tears and other fluids. His own eyes are so dry they feel like sandpaper.

 _Viv._

…

"She's going to be fine."

Hours. It's hours later. It's years.

But they said fine.

They said _fine._

Addison sags with relief, Mark's arms the only thing holding her off the floor.

"Will she – "

"She'll sleep it off. We'll keep her through tomorrow, monitor the withdrawal. She won't remember any of this." The doctor waves a hand, looking much more relaxed now. "That's why the grownups are so fond of oxy. Makes all the bad stuff disappear. 'Til you wake up, anyway," he says matter-of-factly. "Or, you know … until you don't."

Addison flinches visibly now. Mark's arm tightens around her.

"Look, needless to say, you should probably make sure she never goes wherever she found that stuff again."

"Of course," Mark says, his voice shaking.

Addison's legs are shaking too; she feels like they're going to collapse. "Mark," she whispers, terrified, as the doctor leaves them alone again. "I didn't know – "

"Neither did I," he says grimly.

"She was doing so well." Addison shakes her head. "But now she's – "

"Using? Dealing?" His face is hard. "Whatever it is, this is it, Addie. She's gone."

"Mark – "

"No. I love her too, but I don't care. She's gone. Tonight. We'll pay for rehab, whatever, I don't _care_ ," he repeats, but the tears in his eyes prove the lie of that statement.

"Viv's okay," Addison says in a small voice. "They said."

"I know." He pulls her in hard against his chest and she lets him hold her up again. "I know."

Her head is buzzing, skin tingling with terror, the adrenaline comedown making her dizzy. She lets go, lets him support her, reciting _fine_ to herself to force the next breath through her lips. _Fine_. They said Viv was _fine._

"We're going to keep her overnight, monitor her." Another doctor, a tired-looking one. "There'll be a peds nurse with her throughout the night."

"Can we see her?" Mark asks hoarsely. "Can we see her now?"

…

She's in an oddly cheerful mini-room in PICU. There's a framed yellow sun on the wall; that's the first thing she notices. And then they can only see stripes of her behind the white bars of the bed. A crib, really. When they get closer they can see she's sleeping, oxygen prongs in her nose, hooked up to monitors she never thought she would see on their daughter's impossibly small body. A series of screen beep out her steady pulse.

Her life.

"Vivi?" Addison has to force herself to keep from crying, not wanting to frighten her daughter any more than she already has. A few tears slip out anyway. Mark is holding onto her with one hand, the other hand gripping the bars of their daughter's hospital bed.

She doesn't stir.

"Mommy and Daddy are here, baby," Addison whispers. "Everything's okay. Everything's okay now."

Viv blinks a little, blearily, and Addison feels her heart pound out of her chest. The soft whimpering sound her daughter makes is somehow as earth-shattering and as blessed a relief as her first lusty cry after delivery.

"Hey, sweetheart." Addison smiles down at her, forcing back the tears.

Viv's eyes are open; she looks a little disoriented. She's too exhausted, it seems, to notice the indignity of being in a crib.

"Mommy," she murmurs, her voice husky and confused. A question.

"I'm right here." Addison dangles her arm in over the bars to take her daughter's hand – the one without the IV. She strokes silky skin – Viv is clean, wearing a printed hospital gown, her hair piled under a cap.

Her eyes drift closed.

Mark is stroking her cheek now. "Go back to sleep, baby," he whispers. "We're right here."

Viv sleeps.

They don't move.

They sit in the two hard chairs provided, each of them with a hand slipped through the bars, touching whatever they can reach to reassure themselves that Viv is okay.

The machines beep reassuringly, and seconds turn to minutes turn to hours through a steady routine of vitals checks and check-ins from her medical team.

They're frozen in place. Someone brings them water, and Mark encourages Addison to drink, but her lips are frozen around the terror of that darkened run down sixty-eighth street, a limp Vivian dangling from Mark's arms.

 _Fine._ She's fine.

She's fine.

The water tastes bitter on her tongue, and the bottle stays capped on the floor next to her chair. Viv's steady heartbeat is the only sustenance they need.

…

"Mr. and Mrs. Sloan?"

They both look up, bleary-eyed, not bothering to correct the mistake.

It's not a nurse this time, or a doctor.

Two uniformed police officers are standing in the doorway, flanking a dark-haired woman in a navy suit; she's holding a shabby briefcase and there's a manila folder in her hands. The woman's face is lined, a little weary, her mouth set in a straight line as she takes in the scene.

Uneasily, Addison looks at Mark. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks and jaw stained with five-o-clock shadow. She's aware she doesn't look much better.

She raises burning eyes to the clock on the wall. Morning. It's morning.

Mark stands first, and helps her to her feet. The arm he wraps around her is strong but it's shaking a little too.

"Yes," he says.

The dark-haired woman with the briefcase smiles at them. Not with her eyes. She looks like she's sorry.

"What is it?" Addison asks nervously. "What's wrong?"

"We'd like to speak with you," the woman says, "as soon as possible."

"But our daughter – "

"I'll watch her," the nurse who's been monitoring says quietly, gesturing at the crib where Viv is sleeping.

"Excellent. Thank you," the woman in the suit says to the nurse. She turns back to Mark and Addison.

"I'm Tori Alvarez," she says, business-like, taking two cards out of her battered briefcase. She hands one to each of them. Addison turns it over with trepidation.

 _Victoria Alvarez, M.S.W.  
Child Protective Specialist, Administration for Children's Services._

ACS. _ACS._

Addison's heart speeds up.

She looks from the caseworker to the police officers. She's seen this before. She's _summoned_ this before, she's a mandated reporter.

But this is different. This is _her_ child, her life.

Her child's life, measured in steady beeps from the monitor.

Three very serious faces in the doorway, looking at them.

Waiting for them.

The caseworker looks from Mark to Addison. "I have some questions for you," she says.

Addison swallows hard.

"Can you come with us, please?"

* * *

 _And there it is. There's just something about Mark and Addison and Viv and all the IVF woes and the surgeon-mommy woes and the complicated Amy part of it all, at least for me. And Amy will fill in her part in the present timeline, and then we'll probably stay in the present for a while. This little story is ... 48 chapters at this point. I really love hearing from you, and if you made it all the way through this chapter, I hope you'll let me know what you thought. Bonus: it makes me likely to get Chapter 49 up as soon as I can. Thank you, as always, for reading and responding._


	49. the garden you planted

**A/N: Thank you for all your comments on the third floor interlude. I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to post. I was fighting with length and cutting and finally, well, it's a very, very long chapter. So, back in the present timeline now. I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

 _the garden you planted  
..._

* * *

"So … yeah." Amy is toying with her empty paper cup. "Good times."

Derek doesn't scold her; there's real pain on her face despite her cavalier words.

"The police," he prompts after a moment. Most of the story has tumbled out already, unfolded.

Amy nods. "Mark and Addie … they, uh, they hired me a lawyer but ACS was the bigger problem. The hospital was required to report what happened and they opened an investigation."

"An investigation?" As brutal as the story Amy recounted is, Derek is still surprised.

"What, you thought ACS didn't bother with rich white people?" Amy asks bluntly. "Yeah, so did I. But I guess they make an exception when a preschooler ODs on oxy."

"Amy." Derek shakes his head. "What happened with ACS?"

"No finding," Amy says, a mix of guilt and relief in her tone. "But the investigation stays open for three years, which means there's … a little more than a year left. And there were conditions. One of them is that I – "

" – can't live with them," Derek says, putting the last pieces together.

"Right." Amy glances at him. "You can imagine how desperate they must have been to call me a few months ago."

He can. He's been well aware of the difficult choices Mark has had to make trying to balance Addison's needs with Vivian's. Newly added to the mix, he now realizes, is the combination of sacrifice and risk it must have been to trust Amy again after what happened the last time. How hard it must have been that up until Meredith first offered to babysit almost two weeks ago, Amy was the only one Viv would stay with.

No wonder Mark was hesitant.

"I saw them before that," Amy says. "Before Addie got sick. It wasn't the same, they were careful, but … yeah. You know, it took a while for it to kind of die down, and then I had to be interviewed by the social workers and stuff, and – you know Addison," she says finally. "She didn't give up on me, even though she probably should have. But they had their own stuff going on too."

Derek nods. This part of the timeline he knows, that Addison continued fertility treatments and attempts to transfer more embryos, until she lost another pregnancy at eleven weeks.

"Mark called me when Addie was diagnosed," Amy says. "Viv wouldn't stay with her nanny and they were kind of at a loss. I guess they thought maybe since I predated all that – stuff they were dealing with – she might be willing to hang out with me."

"And she was," Derek says.

"And she was." Amy's folding her discarded straw wrapper into small squares. "They were going back and forth to Europe for that weird alternative treatment stuff and I was keeping an eye on the house and then I'd help with Viv when they were in the city."

"But you weren't living there."

"Right." Amy looks at him. "They sealed off the third floor after they kicked me out. Stripped the floors, repainted, and knowing Addison she called in the freaking CDC to make sure all that shit was gone. Not that I can blame her," Amy adds fairly. "I never lived in that house again after that."

"But you've stayed there."

She nods. "If I stay over, I stay in a guest room."

Derek is still trying to process all of this.

So many layers: euphemisms and white lies.

Secrets.

Amy's clearly been giving a lot of time to Mark's family. "You're not working," he guesses.

"I was. I took family leave," she says, then shakes her head at him. "Don't be weird about it."

"I'm not." He sips his coffee. He's not sure what he feels, actually. He shouldn't be surprised Amy sought family outside her blood, especially after what happened with Nancy and the rest of the Shepherds at Clara's wedding.

Or maybe he's not surprised by Amy's closeness with Addison and Mark either, the persistence of their relationship. Mark and Addison both spent years in a sort of Shepherd limbo, didn't they, folded in but still on the outskirts. Maybe it makes sense that Amy – unplanned youngest, so separate from her sister in years and other ways – would identify with non-blood Shepherds over her blood relatives.

"No one else knows what happened?"

"Mom knows. Kind of." Amy rests her chin in her hand. "She visited me in rehab."

Derek remembers words his mother said early on in his trip, about Amy's relationship with the Sloans: _Amy does penance in a lot of ways._

He assumed _penance_ was related to Clara's disastrous wedding finale, to the insults Nancy hurled at Mark and Addison for sheltering Amy, and for their continued willingness to do so post-wedding.

He couldn't have imagined what actually happened.

When he looks at his sister, her eyes are dark with pain.

"You didn't know," he realizes, recalling Amy's mention that she left the townhouse before Mark and Addison realized what had happened to Vivian.

"Not right away. But I found out," Amy says grimly. "I went out, I just remember – I was mad at myself for not getting that makeup for Viv and then I kept thinking _makeup, makeup_ like I was forgetting something else. I got back and there was no one home and the place was – you could tell something had happened. Wet clothes on the floor, Addie would never have done that." Amy pauses. "I saw the door to the third floor was open."

She's quiet for a moment, playing with the straw of her drink.

"I had been struggling, around then, for a couple of months, you know?" she continues. "But after I realized I'd put Viv in the hospital, well, that was it. By the time they found me I was on a bender. Mark threatened me with a psych hold if I didn't go to rehab that night."

She looks up at him. "I know it sounds terrible. I guess you've seen worse."

He has. He remembers teenaged Amy at the start of her downward spiral and he remembers what it was like toward the end of it, too, while he was still willing to beg her to get help. Before what he knows _she_ would characterize as his giving up on her.

But the discovery that Amy, who clearly loved all three Sloans, all of whom trusted her, had been responsible for putting Viv in potentially mortal danger?

That might be _worse._

…

The light is different here, low and greyish-yellow. Meredith leaves her sleeping daughter curled up in the center of the big bed – she can't resist giving her a quick kiss first, but Zola, true to form, snores peacefully throughout.

In the kitchen she finds Derek has already brewed decaf for her, with a note. She busies herself pouring it out, setting the carafe to make regular coffee when he's back.

"You're up early."

Meredith glances away from her coffee cup to see her mother-in-law.

"So are you," she says, smiling.

"That's true." Carolyn looks down, brushing her hands along the robe she's wearing – not a robe, a housecoat. Somehow it suits her; she looks maternal rather than matronly.

"How are you feeling?" Meredith asks.

"Oh, fine." Her mother-in-law waves a hand dismissively, as if to say _surgery? What surgery?_ "Have you heard anything from Mark?"

"Derek is with Amy," Meredith says, "but as far as I know, the surgery is on schedule for this morning."

Carolyn nods, her eyes looking a bit faraway.

"And Zola's still sleeping," Meredith adds.

"She's a good sleeper."

"She is." Meredith roots in the cabinet. "I brewed some coffee. I can make tea, if you'd prefer."

"Don't you wait on me," Carolyn scolds gently. "You're a mother-to-be. And a mother!"

"You're a mother too."

"That I am." Carolyn sits carefully in one of the kitchen chairs, exhaling heavily once she's settled. "But it's been a while for me since I've been a mother-to-be."

Meredith boils water anyway, and despite Carolyn's initial protest she accepts a cup of tea. Decaf in hand, Meredith joins her at the kitchen table.

"When I was expecting Derek," Carolyn begins, an expression of soft reminiscence on her face, and Meredith finds herself leaning forward expectantly.

Somehow, Derek's mother seems to have realized exactly what she needed.

…

"You're sober now," Derek says tentatively, glancing at his sister.

"Yes." She sounds neutral, not defensive. He remembers her words to Nancy's twins: _I'll always be an addict._

"And Jesse?"

She doesn't seem surprised he's brought up their nephew, one more shared secret between them. "Jesse's an addict too, Derek. I know he's fifteen, but – "

"But so were you."

"But so was I." Amy pauses. "Nancy hasn't turned on him yet, though. Not even close. I guess it's different when it's her kid. And … I guess I wish she'd turn on him a little more," she adds.

"What do you mean?"

"He's smart, Jess. You know? Emma's supposed to be the smart one and Sean's the jock and Jesse's just Jesse, except he _is_ smart and he's strategic too. He turned the twins into his little conspirators, didn't he? Pretty effective ones too."

Derek considers this. "But he's in treatment now."

"I know. But there's treatment, and there's treatment. And I think Nancy just wants everything to be okay."

Is that so wrong – to want everything to be okay? To want your children to be okay?

He doesn't say the words aloud.

"I'm worried about Jess, Derek. I think he has too much freedom, still. Because addiction lies to you, it tells you that you need to do things that you don't need to and you shouldn't do."

Derek just watches her, waiting for her to continue.

"I was clean," she says quietly. "Before that, you know? And Addie was pregnant again and they were excited about it, all three of them, and everything was so … _positive_ , you know what I mean? It was nice. It was … hopeful. And when she lost the baby – the first one," Amy clarifies, and Derek already knew what she meant but still finds it sad that she'd feel the need to explain – just one more reminder of the Sloans' tragic few years, "it was hard. For them, obviously, and I thought I was okay. I just needed a little help, that's all, but I was backsliding a little."

 _Backsliding._

"I took Viv to Washington Square Park to score," Amy says. Her tone is outwardly neutral, but there's shame in her eyes, the set of her face. "Just once, but … yeah. And I still thought I was under control. I had a miscommunication with this guy I was – and I was babysitting her. So I take her with me on the train, you know, we're in the park and she's wearing her little Madeline-in-Paris coat with the braids and she's holding my hand and skipping, _this is really fun!_ " Amy's eyes are cloudy with regretful memory.

Derek just listens.

"She wanted to swing and I found swings and she loved it, I was pushing her and she was leaning her head back – you know how we used to do that, all kids do that?" Amy tilts her own head back, some strands of dark hair tumbling down as she does it. She closes her eyes and he can recall a smaller version of her so easily in her expression. "Like that. Like it makes the whole world turn upside down and I remember thinking. I should get on the swing and do it too because my world was already upside down and maybe if I could turn it … I could turn it right side up."

She's looking at him now, not leaning back anymore.

"I thought I was okay," she says. "I thought I could handle it all. Turns out I couldn't handle any of it."

Both siblings are quiet for a moment.

"But they forgave you," Derek prompts after a while.

"You mean after I almost killed the only one of their kids who made it out of the birth canal?"

He shakes his head. He's used to Amy's bluntness, her direct way of speaking, how off-color she can seem.

Those are words.

Her actions make clear to him her devotion to all three Sloans, whether it's penance she's exacting from herself, guilt, or something else.

"Yeah. They forgave me." Amy pauses, poking at some melting ice with her straw, and then looks up at her brother again. "Addie, uh, she wanted me to agree to marry Mark and raise Viv if she died."

Derek almost chokes on his coffee now, grabbing a napkin as he coughs. "Amy …."

"Don't worry, I said no. It's disgusting, Mark and me? Really? I mean, it was one thing when I was – "

" _Amy._ "

"Sorry." Amy shrugs. "Anyway, I told Addie she can only be a puppetmaster when she's alive, so she'd better fight because she can't control everything if she's dead. She … wasn't so thrilled with me that day."

 _I wonder why._

"Viv's having a tough time," Amy says quietly. "You didn't know them before, it was – they were different. They were great with her, and she was great."

"Yeah." Derek sips his coffee, thinking of the mostly solemn little girl who sometimes lights up around his own daughter. He can't imagine what their lives were like in the Before. The brief glimpse of them at the wedding – healthy mother, happy child – seems like another era. "Meredith has spent more time with her than I have," he acknowledges.

"Viv likes her. Meredith, I mean. She likes her a lot." Amy pauses. "I guess all the screwed-up kids get along with each other."

"Meredith isn't a screwed up kid," he says, hearing his tone turn defensive.

"Whatever you say, Derek." Amy leans back. "But, speaking as a screwed-up kid? I don't care how many degrees you get … once a screwed-up kid, always a screwed-up kid." She raises her eyebrows at him. "And you can't say _I'm_ not a screwed-up kid."

She has a point. "You're not that screwed up," he says after a moment.

Her mouth quirks. "So basically … you're saying you missed me?"

Derek studies his youngest sister. She's wearing a purposefully casual expression, but he can see a flicker of something in her eyes. Old hurts, and hope too.

"Yeah, I guess I am," he admits, and is rewarded with a smile that reaches her eyes.

…

Meredith wanted to know this part of him.

Her connection to Derek was so immediate, so electric – and the merging of their lives, even with its stumbling blocks, so quick – that she sometimes forgot that he lived years of his life before he met her. Not just the school years, the stumbling-around-without-a-plan post-graduation travel years, but … life years. He had a life, in New York.

He moved to Seattle unencumbered, other than the pain of his past. He talked about his father, a few times, but she never saw so much as a family photograph other than that. Before Clara's wedding, the only contact she had with Derek's past – other than Richard Webber's history with him – was when his ex-wife, and then a few months later his sister, showed up in Seattle.

As for the wedding … well. If nothing else, it certainly wasn't the showdown with his family she was fearing. Everyone was blandly welcoming, at a minimum, some even a bit friendly – distracted, certainly, first with typical wedding logistics and then with Amy's unexpected entrance.

It took years for Derek to send for some of the boxes waiting in storage in New York, for Meredith to be able to see things like baby pictures and boxes of faded blue-ballpoint note cards from medical school and his worn out high-school baseball glove, still smelling of neat's-foot oil.

She has the Derek she wants – the current one, the _now_ one, the Meredith's-husband one, the Zola's-daddy one.

Her Derek.

But these pieces of him, these fragmented kaleidoscope shards of his life in New York before she knew him … these are new.

Before this, she entertained the briefest of fears that expanding her view of him with this new information would change things, would make her see him differently. And she knows that Derek might have had that fear too, a little.

What's strange is that the more the new pieces have come together, the fragments of his past shaping before her … the _more_ she realizes she's known him all along.

"The girls were excited to have a little brother," Carolyn says, smiling. "Oh, I'm not saying they didn't dress him up a few times … but it was novel, you know. We were all excited. My husband …." Carolyn pauses, her eyes soft. "He would never have said anything. We loved our three girls, of course we did. And they were darling together, when Nancy and Kathy weren't pulling each other's hair or snatching each other's toys. Christopher loved them and would never have complained if I'd had another girl, but his face when he saw Derek for the first time – well, I can still see it."

Meredith listens, transfixed.

"Nancy was the baby before Derek, old enough to remember it before he came, and we couldn't help but fuss over him. So he was the first boy, _and_ he was the baby of the family for a long time. Nancy was still our youngest girl, though, until Amy. We didn't find out ahead of time then, of course," Carolyn reminds Meredith. "I think Nancy was praying for a boy the entire time I was carrying Amy. Literally," she adds, smiling, "although Father Patrick never confirmed it, you know, he thought children deserved to have their confidences kept too."

Her coffee is lukewarm at this point; Meredith sips it anyway.

"Derek looked out for Amy. He and Mark – they were thick as thieves, it was like having two boys instead of one. They'd let her tag along with them." Carolyn pauses. "How much do you know about Amy's problems," she asks, "the first time around, I mean?"

"Some," Meredith says. "Not that much."

Carolyn nods. "It was very difficult," she says, "for everyone. But Derek – he was especially protective of Amy. They went through it together, when their father died. He took care of her and then he took it hard when he couldn't take care of her anymore. Probably the hardest."

Carolyn pauses again, taking a sip of tea and studying Meredith over the top of her mug. "My daughters teased me a bit, when you first arrived, if you recall – they thought I didn't like Addie when she and Derek were married."

Meredith nods slightly, not sure where this is going.

"It's not that I didn't like her," Carolyn says carefully. "She was a sweet girl, obviously very bright, you know, eager to be part of things. But I didn't think she was right for Derek. They came from different worlds, and I don't just mean money, either. I'm not blaming her, not really. Her mother – " Carolyn stops talking. "Well. I understood why she wasn't ready to have her own children, that's all I mean, even though I didn't doubt she could do it. She was so good with my daughters' children. And Amy … well, Addie always tried, with her. Always gave her second chances. And third ones. Amy struggled off and on for years," Carolyn recounts. "The others – it's not that they gave up on her, but it was hard."

Meredith nods.

"Especially for Nancy." Carolyn looks down into her cup of tea now, then up again. "Something's going on now, between Nancy and Amy."

She says it matter-of-factly, almost pleasantly.

Meredith is silent, aware that what Derek's shared about his nephew isn't common knowledge at all.

"Don't worry, dear, I'm not asking you to betray confidences. I know my children and I know they have their own ways, their own secrets." She traces the handle of her mug with one finger. Meredith notices her hands – square, capable-looking, with the prominent veins and creases that come with age. Those hands cradled Derek as an infant, guided him through the childhood she's been learning more about.

Carolyn looks like she's about to say something else, but they both glance up at the sound of keys outside the front door.

"Thank you for the tea, Meredith. I think I'll finish it in my room – get some extra rest before Miss Zola wakes up so I can try to match her energy."

Her mother-in-law is gone before the front door opens.

…

Even on the humid walk back to the temporary apartment, Amy having returned to MSC, Derek finds the disturbing story his sister shared is clinging to him like perspiration. It leaves him chilled in the air-conditioning of the lobby, the hall.

Meredith is waiting for him, but if there's a reason beyond just her tendency to know what he needs, he doesn't find out.

One look at his face and she's taking him by the hand, leading them into the bathroom attached to their bedroom. While their daughter sleeps peacefully outside the locked door, she runs hot water in the roomy shower that is soon sluicing over both their bodies.

He doesn't tell her right away, just lets the pounding water beat a rhythm into his back and the steam release some of the tension from his muscles. She looks up at him, all wide cat's eyes with her long hair slicked away from her face. He's kissing her without realizing it, drawing comfort from the warmth of her lips, in her limber body moving against his. She's pulling him closer, as close as they can be, and he loses himself in her.

"It's still hot," Meredith sounds a little impressed, freeing a hand to catch the shower water like rainfall.

"Maybe not for the neighbors, though," Derek says, smiling a little.

"True." She leans against him, and he's grateful as he has been so many times that she doesn't push him.

Under the running water, and then while they are toweling dry, and finally while they are holding each other in bed next to their mercifully healthy sleeping child, he tells her what he learned from Amy.

Meredith doesn't say anything until he's finished the story, just listens to it unfold, folding her fingers through his when his voice shakes a little.

"Amy said Viv has no idea what happened. She slept for something like fifteen hours and woke up and checked out and that was that."

Meredith's eyes widen. Her hand finds its way into his hair, her strong fingers soothing. "At least she's okay."

"Viv, or Amy?" Derek knows his expression is rueful.

"Both of them. And maybe it was a – wakeup call, for Amy."

"Maybe." Derek smiles down at his wife, smooths her wet hair away from her face. He loves seeing her like this, all wide expressive eyes with nothing to distract him from her.

Not even the realization that in his experience, Amy's wakeup calls didn't always last … and her rock bottom was lower every time.

…

They're already dried off and dressed when the bustling noises of activity in the kitchen alert them that his mother is preparing breakfast.

"Your mom doesn't really get the whole _rest_ part of recovery, I think," Meredith says.

"I shouldn't have expected anything less." Derek kisses his wife's cheek. "I'll go see if I can give her a hand if you don't mind – "

"On it," Meredith says before he can finish, as her arms are filled with squirming half-awake toddler.

The kitchen smells sweet and fresh, and his mother smiles at him from the stove. "Good morning, dear. How was your time with your sister?"

"It was fine," Derek says. "Can I help you with breakfast?"

"You can set the table." His mother smiles and Derek does too, remember so many interactions along these very lines from his childhood.

He does so, and lets his mother finish cooking without any more attempts at questioning whether making pancakes for her newly discovered granddaughter is on the hospitals list of approved post-op activities.

…

Zola is in fine form, having slept well between her parents. Meredith isn't sure how they're going to re-establish a good bedtime routine in Seattle – but then again, these two weeks have been so different in every way that perhaps they'll all just … slide back into their west coast selves when they fly home tomorrow.

Her daughter keeps up a stream of chatter, pausing only to giggle as Meredith pretends not to be able to find her while sliding her pajama top over her head.

"I'm _here_ ," Zola squeals happily when her little face emerges.

"Oh, _there_ you are." Meredith pokes her bare stomach gently and Zola giggles more. Meredith manages to get a tee shirt and shorts on her, although it involves a lot of scooping her daughter up just as she lunges for the door. There's a sweet scent wafting from the kitchen that Zola seems drawn to – hopefully she won't be too disappointed when it's not gummy bears.

Finally dressed, Zola pads quickly through the apartment and into the kitchen, then pauses and looks around.

"Vivi's sleeping?" she asks cheerfully.

Meredith and Derek exchange a glance.

"Actually, Vivi's with her daddy," Derek says, lifting their daughter onto his lap. "Hey, look what Grammy made for breakfast, Zozo."

"Is it yucky?" Zola asks with interest, turning around to see.

Carolyn looks like she's trying to hide her amusement. "Everyone's a critic these days." She sets a plastic plate in front of Zola.

Zola examines the plate with the focus of a cell biologist.

"Something's _smushed_ in there," she frowns finally, and Meredith is impressed enough with the sentence structure that she can't really object to the substance.

"They're strawberries, sweetheart," Carolyn says. "Remember, you told me you liked strawberries."

"Me?" Zola's face is the picture of innocence.

"Yes, you." Carolyn sits down next to her granddaughter. "Don't tell me you've already changed your mind."

Zola is distracted now ripping one of the small pancakes in two. "Hot, hot!" she cries, shaking her little hand in the air.

Meredith examines her fingers – which seem fine – and then delivers the swift medical treatment of a kiss to the back of her dimpled hand that tastes of syrup and sweet strawberries.

"It's not really hot, is it?" Derek passes his own hand over the top of the torn pancake. "My mother served little kids for so long she once said she forgot food could even _be_ hot. Whatever it was, she'd let it cool for a while."

" _She_ is sitting right here," Carolyn reminds him, but she seems pleased that Derek remembers the story. "Zola, would you like Grammy to blow on your pancakes?"

"Yes, please," Zola sniffs, and when her grandmother does so Zola frees one sticky little hand to pat her grey head affectionately.

"Zozo – " Derek reaches out to stop her, but her grandmother isn't hearing of it.

"If I minded a little syrup in my hair, I wouldn't have had five children," his mother says.

Zola is cheerful again, now that her strawberry pancakes have been miraculously cooled. She bounces a little in her seat, chattering.

"Swimming," she says. "An' I _don't_ wear my swimmies." She licks some syrup off one of her fingers. "Daddy swims too," she suggests.

"We'll see." Derek dabs a little syrup off Zola's face – a rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic situation if Meredith has ever seen one.

After breakfast, including Zola's eager attempt to help clear the table by carrying her mostly-empty plate to the sink – and dropping its remaining, sticky contents on the kitchen floor, Meredith corrals their daughter to the sink and cleans off the syrup as best she can. She'll need a new shirt.

And new shorts.

But definitely not a new face – when Meredith kisses her cheek, she still tastes faintly of syrup. When they get back to the kitchen, Derek and his mother seem to be discussing logistics.

"Swimming!" Zola says happily, apparently picking up on the scheduling nature of the conversation.

Derek smiles at her. "Actually, we were just saying that Grammy has physical therapy this afternoon."

Zola cocks her head. "Serapy?"

"Play gym, more or less," Derek offers. "Play gym for Grammies."

"Me too!" Zola beams.

"Oh, my." Carolyn smiles at her granddaughter, then raises her eyes to Meredith's. "I don't think she really wants to watch an old woman prove she can walk around and move her arms."

"I help you, Grammy," Zola says eagerly. She reaches for her grandmother's hand. " _Play_ gym," she repeats in a tone of reverence.

Meredith and Derek exchange an amused glance. The digital microwave clock reminds her what time it is, and she takes his arm when he starts to follow Zola and Carolyn into the living room.

…

It's Meredith's idea, but somehow it feels normal. A quick text confirms where they are, and indeed he sees the back of both of their heads as soon as he enters the pink-accented cafeteria. Mark and Vivian are sharing one of the small round tables, morning sunlight slanting through the windows across the large room.

From Mark's stooped shoulders to Viv's tangled hair, It's so like his earliest images of them, when they felt like two half-forgotten strangers, that he stops in his tracks for a moment.

There's a pad of paper in front of Viv and some crayons strewn across the table. He can't tell what she's doing but she holds up the pad to show Mark something and then Derek can tell she's caught sight of him across the cafeteria.

Recognition flickers in her face. She looks like she's about to stand up, but then seems to think better of it, patting her father's arm instead and pointing in Derek's direction.

Mark glances over, and something that's almost a smile registers in the weary lines of his face.

"Hey."

"Hey." Derek smiles at Mark and his daughter when he's reached their table. "Hi, Viv."

"Is Meredith here?" Viv asks. "And Zola?"

"I'm last on the list," Derek smiles at Mark when it seems like he's about to correct her. "Don't worry, I'm used to it. They're back at the apartment, Viv," he says, directing his words to Mark's daughter now. "I'm sure they'd love to see you."

She glances at her father. "I can't leave," she says. "I'm a tomato."

Derek is confused.

Mark rests a hand on top of Vivian's head. "She's tomato-staked," he says to Derek. "Something one of the nurses said … at any rate, she's stuck with me today."

His expression is determined, and after yesterday's ordeal when Vivian was missing, Derek can't blame him.

Meanwhile, he tries to figure out how to ask how Addison is when Vivian is so clearly in earshot, peering around Mark's arm and listening to what they're saying.

Mark seems to understand, fishing in his canvas bag for a tablet and what looks a pair of children's headphones and setting them in front of Vivian. They're pink; Derek is certain Zola would approve.

"I don't want to watch a show!"

"Indoor voice, Vivi." Mark's face shows his strain, but the rebuke sounds pro forma at best. Viv slumps in her chair, scowling, keeping her distance from the refused tablet.

"Have a few more bites of breakfast," Mark coaxes her. Viv ignores both her father and the plate in front of her.

"It's going to be a couple more hours," Mark says to Derek, his voice quiet. "They have a room for us, but I wanted her to try to eat some real food." He glances at Viv, who has picked up a green crayon and is in the process of snapping it in half. "It's already been a while, for her," Mark admits as the two pieces of broken crayon drop onto the table.

"How much longer?" Viv asks, reaching for another crayon.

"Another couple of hours, baby," he says, stroking the top of Viv's head. "They're just getting started."

"I want to see Mommy."

"I know. You'll see her after. And you saw her before," he adds, prompting her. "Before she went into surgery. Didn't you?"

Vivian nods, her thumb in her mouth now. Mark lifts her onto his lap, brushing her hand down as he does so. She leans against him but replaces her thumb in her mouth at the same time.

"We're getting updates," Mark says. He glances down at his daughter for a moment. "Addison's idea," he adds.

Vivian glances up at her mother's name, and Mark doesn't say anything else. Derek understands from Amy that Addison wanted Mark to stay with Vivian during her surgery instead of spending the time with her in the OR.

From the look on Mark's face, he wasn't thrilled with the decision. He can't blame him; all this time Mark has wanted Addison to treat her illness, and now that she's finally consented to surgery, he can't be with her.

"Amy's with her," Mark says. "And actually … Nancy's there too."

"Nancy … Shepherd?" Derek finds his eyes widening.

Mark nods.

"You mean Nancy and Amy – "

" – are in a room together with a lot of sharp objects and high stakes? Yeah. Well. They're on opposite sides of the table, anyway. " Mark looks a little rueful. "Nancy called a few times, you know, when she figured out – and Addison wanted another pair of eyes on the baby. She and Nancy have done some tandem procedures in the past, you know, pregnant patients she referred to Addison."

Derek takes all this in.

Viv, who has been silently listening, tugs on her father's sleeve.

"Daddy."

"Yeah." He pushes some of Viv's tangled hair away from her face.

"You can go see Mommy now," she says. "Derek can watch me. And then you can come back."

Mark clears his throat, his voice a little thick nonetheless. "That's a nice idea, baby. But Amy's with Mommy, remember?"

"You could go too," Viv persists.

Mark shakes his head. "I know it's hard." He could be talking to himself as much as his daughter as he pulls her a little closer, kissing the top of her head. "But we just have to wait."

Viv looks like she's about to protest.

"Maybe I can bring Meredith and Zola to say hello," Derek suggests quietly. "A little distraction for her."

He hopes he hasn't been too presumptuous, but Mark looks grateful at both the interruption and the suggestion.

Viv is looking up with interest now. She's holding a blue crayon that, until Mark confiscates it, seems to have been intended for the same fate as the green one.

Broken.

…

 _Sister-in-law_. Meredith tries on the unfamiliar word, the one that Liz and Kathleen seemed perfectly comfortable with as they bustled into the temporary apartment where she, Derek, and Zola have been staying. She has the brief and not quite charitable thought that she wouldn't have been so encouraging of Derek's stopping at MSC to support Mark if she knew his sisters were coming over.

Their genuine enthusiasm at seeing Zola tips the scales though.

And all in all, she supposes _sister-in-law_ is better than _girl talk_ , but she does appreciate the effort Derek's sisters have made to include her.

Zola greets her aunts eagerly, then pauses, pursing her pink lips. "Bagels?" she asks hopefully.

"Oh, we didn't bring any, sweetheart." Liz smiles down at Zola. "The big girls have to watch our figures."

"Don't say that. She's a baby," Kathleen scolds.

"I didn't say anything about her! She's perfect."

They bicker good-naturedly while Meredith sidles between Zola and the still-open doorway in case her daughter gets any ideas about finding bagels on her own.

"I _need_ a bagel," Zola tells her mother from new height, perched on her hip now. " _Please_."

"I guess we should stop starving this child."

Derek's voice cuts in, unexpectedly – a nice surprise through the open door – and Meredith finds herself smiling with sheer relief as Zola lunges for a welcome hug and Derek's sisters start fussing around him.

"There are a lot of girls in here," Derek observes, kissing Zola's cheek as he closes the door behind him. "A lot."

"Not for us," Liz reminds him. "You know we can do better than this."

"True." Derek hoists Zola a little higher. "To what do we owe this pleasure?" He glances at Meredith as if to say _did you know they were coming?_ Her own glance in return: _um … no._

"We thought we'd spend some time with you before you leave tomorrow," Kathleen says.

Meredith may not know Kathleen the way she knows her brother, but the unspoken _before you disappear for another seven years_ isn't exactly hard to pick up.

"And check on Mom, make sure you haven't convinced her to move to the west coast." Liz smiles at Zola. "I think she'd follow this one anywhere."

"That damp weather is bad for my old bones," Carolyn interrupts, joining them and shooing both her daughters from fussing over her. "But if I didn't know what a good life they'd made for themselves out there, I'd be trying to convince them to move here instead."

"Grammy!" Zola wriggles to get down from Derek's arms. She's picked up, in the brief time they've been here, that her grandmother can't lift her – as much as she wants to – so Zola settles for taking one of her hands in both of hers. "Grammy, want a bagel?"

"Is that what you made in your kitchen?" Carolyn asks, pointing to Zola's play area by the big windows.

Not that their daughter's play doesn't extend pretty much everywhere she goes.

"No. Outside bagels," Zola explains. "Mommy … hurry," she says urgently.

"Like I said. We're starving her."

Derek heads for the kitchen, pausing to drop a kiss on her lips and say _sorry_ with his eyes for his sisters' unexpected interruption. Meredith glances at Zola, who is entranced with her grandmother, and then follows Derek into the kitchen.

"How were they?"

"They were okay." Derek sips from a bottle of cold water and offers her some; she shakes her head. "I think they're both going stir-crazy," he says after a moment. "Mark wants to be in the room."

Meredith nods.

From the living room, the sound of laughter floats in. It sounds like Zola has reopened her restaurant/grocery store and is giving orders.

Giving, not taking. Zola's games follow their own rules.

"It wasn't his idea," Derek continues, propping his hips against the counter.

"Not to be in there?"

"Right." Derek glances at her. "Amy's with her, and I got the sense Addison told Mark he needed to stay with Vivian instead of her."

Meredith considers this, what it would be like to make a choice between staying with Derek during a surgery that carried enormous risks and staying with Zola.

"Does Addison know about what happened yesterday? With Viv?" she asks.

"I don't know." Derek finishes the water bottle. "Actually, I told Mark we might stop by to distract Viv. I think she'd love to see Zola. And you." He smiles. "She asked for both of you as soon as she saw me. She's no fool – she has good taste."

…

They split the difference, since Derek's sisters invited themselves over for _girl time._ Zola is desperate for a bagel, and with limited time in the bagel capital of the world he can't say no. After the _girls_ – all of which are mothers, one a grandmother – politely decline, Derek takes his daughter with him and picks up extra for Mark and Vivian. Liz and Kathleen seem happy with this turn of events, apparently wanting to bond with his wife. For this, he shoots her multiple apologetic looks, but she waves him off. Zola looks torn at the front door, but settles on a long hug before leaving her mother behind for her beloved bagels.

The bag of bagels is warm against him – and he's warm, from the humidity, but they've walked slowly, at Zola's pace, back to MSC.

If their daughter sees anything strange about a playdate in a hospital cafeteria, it's certainly not apparent from her reaction of mixed delight and anticipation. She holds her arms up when the chill of the air conditioning hits, and Derek holds warm toddler in one arm and warm bagels in the other.

She's so eager, in fact, her little body quivering as he holds her, her eyes glowing, that Derek is afraid for a moment they're being unfair to the others in the oversized elevators. They're dealing with cancer, all of them, with uncertainty and strain and disease.

But if anything, it has the opposite effect. Derek sees a teenaged girl with red-rimmed eyes nudge an older woman, perhaps her mother, to indicate the beaming toddler. They both smile at Zola, who smiles back. An elderly man gives her a little wave and when she waves both hands in return, his tired, creased face gains a little light.

" _Vivi_ 's here," Zola reminds her father happily as they walk to the cafeteria.

Zola wriggles to get down and runs straight to Vivian. Derek watches as his daughter flings her pudgy little arms around Mark's daughter, their height differential making it especially adorable. Viv's sweetness with Zola has been noticeable from their first meeting, but Derek has never known Vivian her to be a particularly affectionate child. Still, she seems pleased with Zola's enthusiastic greeting.

"Hi, Vivi." Zola leans back, smiling up at her. "Wanna swim with me?"

"We're going to play here right now, Zozo," Derek intercedes, stroking the top of his daughter's head. "Look at Viv's crayons and sketch paper – maybe you can color."

"Yeah, I can color," Zola says confidently. Viv takes her little hand and then the two of them are studying the collection of bright crayons and paper.

Derek turns to Mark. He's looking at his watch, the strain clear in his face. Not being with Addison – who he knows is conscious enough to be aware of her surroundings – has to be taking its toll: another decision that was out of Mark's hands.

"I'm not sure if you guys have eaten…" Derek sets down the bagels.

"Thanks. That was nice of you." Mark glances at Viv. "She should eat."

Mark's hollow-cheeked face suggests he should eat too, but Derek refrains from bringing it up.

Unsurprisingly, Vivian thanks Derek politely for the bagel but declines to eat it.

"Have a few bites," Mark suggests. "While it's hot."

Zola is at least half cream cheese at this point, beaming, her earlier foray into strawberry pancakes apparently not having soured her appetite for bagels. Derek winces a little when his daughter reaches with a cream cheese-coated little hand for Viv's crayons, but if it bothers the older girl there's no indication.

"It's _so_ yummy," Zola sighs happily.

Viv is trying to organize their art supplies, it seems, and keeps bumping up against the bagels.

"Can you move this?" Viv asks her father, pushing at the bag of bagels. "We need more room."

Mark edges it away from her. "I want you to eat, Vivi," he says, and holds up one of the bagel halves. "Look, it's just how you like it."

Viv leans in, somewhat grudgingly, and takes a bite.

"Good, right?" Mark hands her a paper napkin and Viv dabs her mouth politely. He gets her to take two more bites before she shakes her head.

"All done!" Zola crows cheerfully and Derek, amused, takes on the task of wiping off enough cream cheese that his child can be identified again.

Viv, meanwhile, is standing in front of Mark now, pointing to the next table, which is empty. She's holding a wide sketchbook. "Can me and Zola sit over there so we can spread out my stuff?" she asks, apparently still dissatisfied with the amount of room the girls have to color.

"No," Mark says shortly.

"Why not?"

"You know why not. Because I can't trust you right now. You have to stay here." He points to the chair next to his. "Sit."

Scowling again, Vivian sits down, but when Zola pats Viv's arm and hands her, with great ceremony, a lilac crayon, much of the scowl melts away.

They watch the girls color for a while, the only sounds their chatter.

Mark looks at his watch, and Vivian seems to notice right away.

"When can we see Mommy again?" she asks.

"It's going to be a little while, baby. The doctors are still helping her now, like I told you."

"Maybe they're done." Viv stands up. "Go ask them."

"They'll tell us when they're done," he says patiently. "That's why we're staying close right now. So they know where to find us."

"What if they forget?"

"They won't." Mark cups her small face with one hand. "I'm a doctor too, remember? I know how it's done."

"But what if she's sleeping? When they're done?"

Mark's eyes are bleak for a moment. Derek tries to comprehend the pain of knowing that _done_ might not be what they hope for, and as for _sleeping_ … well.

"Daddy?" Viv pulls at his hand.

"You can still see Mommy if she's sleeping," Mark assures her, "as long as you're nice and quiet. Like we talked about." His shoulders are tense, and the strain of not being in the operating room, not having any control over the outcome, clear in his expression.

She opens her mouth to protest.

"Vivi. Zola came all this way to play with you," Mark reminds her.

It's a bit of an exaggeration; Derek is reminded of the old Marx Brothers routine – really, their temporary apartment couldn't be much closer to MSC unless it were actually located inside it.

But Zola has perked up at her name and Vivian lets herself be tempted back to coloring with her younger friend. Minutes pass, and then abruptly, Zola she climbs down from the chair. "Mine," she tells Vivi, "here, for you," and she hands over the crayons she's been holding with great ceremony.

Then she trots around the table and clambering onto her father's lap as if she's been summoned.

"Yes?" Derek kisses the top of her head.

"I'm _not_ tired," Zola reminds him as she burrows into his shirt, and he has to press his lips together not to laugh. True to form, her deep slumbering breaths start almost immediately.

Viv is out of her seat again, leaning a little against her father, who wraps an arm around her. "You wore her out, baby," Mark says, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. "All that coloring."

Viv is looking at her sleeping friend with interest.

"How about having a few more bites?" Mark suggests again. He lifts Viv onto his knee and angles her toward the remains of her bagel. She pokes dispiritedly at it a few times without progress.

"You want something else?" he tries.

Viv shakes her head, and twists around on Mark's lap to face him. "Can Zola see Mommy too?" she asks. "When she's awake?"

Mark looks as surprised by the question as Derek feels; he's also not sure whether _when she's awake_ refers to his daughter or Vivian's mother.

"Um … maybe, yeah, when she's home again," Mark says after a moment. He exchanges a glance with Derek, a reminder that the two-week duration of their trip to Manhattan is almost up.

"When's that?"

"I don't know yet, baby." Mark rubs his jaw. "Soon, I hope."

Viv's disappointed face is hard to see.

Derek thinks about the time Viv has spent with Meredith, how Zola in her sunny toddler fashion has shared both her parents with Vivian. Zola has met Vivian's father, of course, but not her mother. No wonder she wants to introduce them.

Viv pushes her way off her father's lap to stand in front of him. Mark takes one of her hands, which looks like half comfort and half restraint. Derek can't really blame him; the brief, terrifying hours Vivian was missing are still fresh in everyone's minds.

"Vivi," Mark starts, but Viv interrupts.

"Will she be home for my birthday?"

"I don't know yet, baby, I'm sorry," Mark repeats patiently. Derek senses from Mark's expression that she's talking about a date that's relatively soon, and that it's a conversation they've had before.

"Why?" Viv pulls her hand out of her father's.

"Because I don't." Mark sounds a little less patient now.

"That's not fair," Viv scowls, taking a step back and avoiding Mark when he reaches for her.

"Vivi."

But she jerks her hand away when he tries to take it again.

" _Viv._ Come here, it's okay." Mark tries to lift her back onto his lap now but his daughter is having none of it, wriggling away and scowling.

"I want to go," she says.

"We can't go yet – hey, knock it off," he says sharply when she shies away for a third time; this time, he snags one of her arms and pulls her close. "You know the deal: you stay close or you stay home. I'm not chasing you around the city today."

Viv tears up, visibly, and Mark draws an audibly ragged breath. His voice is softer when he speaks again.

"I _know_ it's hard sitting here, baby. I know. We're going to get up and walk around in a couple of minutes, back to the waiting room. So you can sit on my lap until we go, if you want, or you can sit there." He points at the chair next to his. "But you have to stay with me."

Viv takes the chair, glowering. She ignores the pad and crayons, the tablet and the earphones, and just folds her arms over her chest, staring pointedly in the opposite direction.

"Sorry," Mark says to Derek. He massages the back of his neck, looking exhausted.

"Don't be." Derek looks down at his sleeping daughter. For what feels like the hundredth time since reestablishing contact with his old friend, he thinks how incredibly difficult Mark's position is.

"You should take her home." Mark nods in Zola's direction. "Put her down."

"We can stay. As far as Zola's concerned, I'm better than a pack 'n' play."

Mark smiles briefly at this.

In another reality, if Addison were healthy and Vivian living the life they'd planned for her, would he and Mark joke together about their daughters? He tries to imagine what that lighthearted world would look like.

"She's tired too," Mark says, glancing at Viv. "She didn't sleep well last night. I'm going to take her back to the family room, see if I can get her to rest."

If Viv knows she's being discussed, she gives no sign. But she doesn't protest when Mark picks up one of her braids, playing absently with the end of it. After a few moments of this, she leans into his hand and he strokes the top of her head.

"You're flying out tomorrow," Mark confirms, turning back to Derek when Viv has resumed her coloring.

Derek nods.

"I'm glad I got to meet them," Mark says quietly. His voice is a little gruff. "Meredith and Zola, I mean."

Derek is reminded that without Mark … he would never have met Meredith or Zola either.

The thought is enough to constrict his throat.

He doesn't dwell, just looks at the man who was his best friend for more than thirty years, who was the architect of the end of his first marriage and, as a result, the unknowingly benevolent co-creator of his current marriage … for which he can be nothing but deeply grateful.

What can he say to him? Now, while they share a table with their daughters?

"I'm glad too," he says.

…

Derek is still turning the conversation over hours later, back at the temporary apartment, letting Zola burn off some post-nap energy running circles around the common playspace away from the intensely hot humidity outside.

Meredith is alternately exclaiming over Zola's feats, as directed by their daughter, and filling Derek in on the _girl time_ he missed.

"Watch me!" Zola orders from across the room, though she doesn't need to – it's not like they can keep their eyes off her. Meredith is leaning against him, saying something now about toddler levels of energy and potential bottling uses for busy surgeons, when his blackberry buzzes.

 _Amy_.

It buzzes again in his palm.

 _Somebody get it!_ That's what his sisters used to yell when the house phone would ring.

He doesn't want to get it, though.

Because _get it_ can mean _get_ _news_ … and no news is sometimes better than any news.

"Derek?" Meredith prods gently.

He takes the call, greeting his sister briefly – as she speaks, he keeps his eyes focused on the little blur of his daughter across the room as she pedals her feet furiously on a bright purple plastic four-wheeled motorcycle.

Zola sees him watching and grins at him, her small face bright with so much innocent joy that for a moment he's not sure he can breathe.

"Derek." Amy, on the other end of the phone, sounds impatient. "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

Meredith is waiting when he ends the call – present, but not pushing, her eyes soft with concern. She reaches for his hand just as Zola parks her little motorcycle and jogs the rest of the way across the carpeted floor to join her parents.

"Me too!" Zola exclaims happily, clambering onto Derek's lap and sliding part of the way onto Meredith's so she is connecting both of them. Then she climbs onto her knees and Derek feels her soft pudgy little arms around his neck, her small body settling in the crook of his arm. Warmth spreads through him, in the chill of the air-conditioning, like he's just turned his face up to the sun.

After a moment, Meredith's arms come around both of them. With the flat of his hand against his wife's abdomen, his son is there too – bearing silent witness.

This is their position, the four of them.

His family.

For long breaths in which Derek can almost imagine the world is perfect.

"Derek …" Lightly, Meredith touches his face, but he can feel the strength in her fingers. "What did Amy say?" she asks.

"They made it," Derek says. "Both of them."

Under his palm, their unborn son kicks firmly as if to underscore the news.

* * *

 _I'd love to hear what you think, so I hope you'll review. The next chapter should go up sooner, and your comments always help speed me up._


	50. thunderbolt's goodnight

**A/N: Thank you so much for your comments on the last chapter, and your support throughout this story. I know it's been a long journey, and I so appreciate everyone who has been reading. I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

 _thunderbolt's goodnight_  
...

* * *

It's not news to Meredith that two weeks – well, thirteen days, today – can change your life. When you meet a stranger in a bar on an ordinary night and realize it's actually the person you're meant to spend the rest of your life with?

You kind of end up with an open mind about that sort of thing.

Still, she takes a minute to marvel at how she's gone from nervous about meeting Derek's family – his slew of sisters with their large families and their proximity to Derek's mother and their much more wholesome origin stories – to feeling utterly unsurprised at the way they gather in groups.

Unintimidated, unbothered.

Even … comfortable?

There are so many links that were new to her, upon arriving in Manhattan. Some of them started years ago – seven years ago. Some came out of the shadows a few years after that, at Derek's niece's wedding in California. Over the last two weeks, slowly but surely, the pieces have come together.

To the point that two doctors whose passion for surgery unites them have spent two full weeks away from the practice of medicine, immersed instead in the world of _patient_ , the world of _loved ones._

To the point that crossing the wide street separating their temporary apartment from Memorial-St. Catherine's so that they can see Derek's oldest, no longer estranged friend?

It feels … natural, even expected. Another link in the chain.

…

"So you heard." Nancy is smiling widely, but tiredly, when she meets them on the third floor.

Without the layers of clothing, wearing just wrinkled scrubs, Nancy looks skinny – more frail than he's used to seeing her.

She also looks exhausted, understandably.

"We heard." Derek smiles at his sister as she approaches.

"Yeah." Nancy stretches a little. "Sorry about the outfit. We had a post-meeting, and … I'm not that anxious to get back into my shoes, to be honest." She gives Meredith a conspiratorial sort of smile; Meredith, who's fairly certain Nancy is talking about a different type of shoe, smiles back nonetheless.

"Good news," Derek says tentatively.

"About as good as we could hope."

"So." Derek raises his eyebrows at his older sister. "You and Amy?"

"Amy? I barely saw her." Nancy accepts the bottle of water he's holding out. "She was at her head and there were about a hundred people in there."

"A hundred." Derek sips his own water, lifting Zola a little higher in his arms.

"Fine, not a hundred. But the team in there … ." Nancy shakes her head. "It was like operating on the president."

She takes a sip of water.

"I suppose she is the president of MFM, in a way." Nancy smiles a little bit. "She did well, and the baby – all his stats actually look good."

"Is this – "

"Enough?" Nancy shrugs. "She bought time. If she's smart she'll let them take the baby at twenty-eight weeks so she can start radiation, but I don't think she'll be willing to go earlier than thirty weeks. They were still at thirty-six last time I was part of the conversation."

"But as for her breathing – the blockage is cleared, and now she just has to recover from surgery. She won't take pain meds, obviously, but … she's tough. And she's toughing it out."

Nancy's tone is fond, even admiring. It's a hundred and eighty degrees from her venomous tone at Clara's wedding. He knows from his sisters that Addison and Nancy never really lost touch after that, though they weren't as close. Still, though.

Nancy and Amy, estranged. Addison and Mark, forgiving both of them for the very different pain they inflicted.

He's just beginning to tie all the threads together, to believe that his decision to walk away – which he knows was the best, for him – might be more defensible, overall, than he thought. By the time he left Manhattan seven years ago, his life had shrunk to a pinhole, and then exploded. In Seattle, nurtured by the clean forest air and the peace he found in both solitude and companionship … his life opened up again.

Opened up wide enough that now, after finally walking back, he thinks he might have some room for his family of origin.

Still, as he studies his sister's familiar, angular face, he's not sure he could have made the same decision Mark and Addison did – to let her back in after how she treated them at the wedding. If it had been Meredith she screamed at, blamed for Amy's downward spiral, could he have forgiven her?

"Derek." Meredith is touching his arm with one small hand. He realizes Nancy has been saying something to him.

"Sorry, what?"

"No reconstruction," Nancy repeats. "You can't do everything under these circumstances. You want to get in and get out for a pregnant patient. That can wait until after the she's no longer gestating."

The term sounds cold – _after she's no longer gestating_ , as opposed to _after the baby's born_ , but Nancy is an OB-GYN and Derek defers to her phrasing.

"What about your practice?"

"This is why I have partners." Nancy raises her eyebrows. "Instead of going upstate this summer, I'm using all my goodwill to spend time with Mom – and you – and take on an unscheduled patient or two, of course."

She pauses to smile at Zola. "I'll see _you_ later, pumpkin." She looks up at Derek. "You _do_ know we're all having dinner tonight," she reminds him bossily, sounding very much like her teenage self.

"I know," Derek assures her.

"Good." Nancy drains the rest of the bottle. "I'm going to try to make myself human and maybe check in on a few of my patients – my other patients. I'll see you later?"

There's a question mark that Derek understands, after their long separation, so he imbues his nod with as much confidence as he can before his sister leaves and he, his wife, and their daughter can go find Mark.

…

"See _Vivi_ ," Zola says breathlessly in the elevator, her arms wrapped tightly around Derek's neck as if to make sure he can share in her excitement.

"That's right." He kisses her cheek. "Vivi is excited to see you too."

Once they step off the elevator, Meredith touches his arm and gestures toward the sign for the ladies' room. "I'll meet you in a minute," she says.

"Me too!" Zola reaches for her mother.

Meredith looks like she's trying not to laugh as she accepts an armful of their enthusiastic daughter. "This is all you for the next one," she reminds Derek in a low voice.

He can't help smiling too. He leans in to give her a quick kiss. "You want me to take her?"

Zola has a possessive arm wrapped around her mother's neck, and he's not sure how well that would go, but he's willing to try if it's what Meredith needs.

"No, it's fine. You go in, I know they're waiting for you, and we'll meet you when we're done."

He watches them walk away down the pink-accented hall and then heads for the waiting area where Mark said they would be. There's a sunny lounge setup with warm light trickling in from two sides, and there are a few people there – but not Mark or Vivian. He follows Mark's directions to the private family room, checking his blackberry as he does in case he missed the instructions.

His eyes are on the screen when he turns the corner and raps lightly on the open door, so he doesn't see the person in the room.

He just hears a voice.

"Is that Derek Shepherd?"

The voice is –

Immediately recognizable, and completely shocking, all at once.

Even in this two weeks of revisiting his past, it's still a voice he never expected to hear again.

…

Meredith keeps up a running chat with Zola as they make their way down the hall, looking for a one-person bathroom where she won't have to basically perch her daughter on the tank.

The hospital is set up for comfort, she knows, and isn't surprised to see a series of pink trimmed doors, with signs suggesting anyone can –

"Vivi!" Zola shrieks with joy, waving both hands. "Mommy, _look_!"

"I see!" Meredith waves too.

Viv is indeed approaching, hand in hand with her father. She looks a little disheveled in the way that Meredith has come to associate with her, her long hair half in and half out of a messy ponytail, her casual clothes a bit wrinkled as if she napped in them.

"Hey." Meredith lets Mark set the tone – he looks worn out, which doesn't surprise her after the stressors of the day, not to mention the previous days … and weeks. She doesn't say, _amazing news, incredible_ , but although he looks exhausted there's a sense of wonder in his face that communicates it anyway.

"Hi." That's all he says out loud, giving Zola a little wave; she beams and bounces on her tiptoes. "Looks like we're headed to the same place."

He indicates the ladies' room with a jerk of his head and Viv scowls at him. "That's for girls," she says. "Not you."

"They need to get those … family bathrooms here," Mark says vaguely. "Come on, Viv, it's fine, I'll knock first and we'll clear out the girls."

"Don't." Her cheeks are flushing.

"It's okay," he says, sighing a little. Then he seems to see the unspoken question in Meredith's eyes and nods. "We were just with your mom. Right, Viv?"

Vivian nods. "And we're going back," she adds. "You said."

"We're going back." Mark is toying with a lock of Viv's messy hair.

"That's great," Meredith says quietly.

"Yeah, they're hanging in there." Mark's gaze moves down the hall. "Did Derek come with you?"

"To the hospital, yes. To the ladies' room … no. He'll meet up with us afterwards."

It makes Mark smile slightly, but then seems to remind Vivian of the gender-based problem.

" _Don't_ come in," she tells her father, warning in her husky little voice.

"You're not going in alone, Viv. You're five."

Viv pulls her hand out of his. " _No boy_ s," she says firmly.

"She can come in with us," Meredith suggests. "If you want to wait, I'll just take them both in."

Mark looks uncertain.

"I'm _not_ going to do anything," Viv says, pulling at her father's hand now. "Please."

"Okay … " He glances at Meredith. "if you really don't mind."

"Of course not." Meredith extends a hand to Viv.

"Thanks, by the way," Mark says quietly as she passes, over both children's heads. "For the other night."

"I didn't do anything, really." She gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile before leading both girls through the swinging door.

Like everything Meredith has seen at MSC, the ladies' room seems designed to bring slightly gendered comfort: pink and white flowers in a disturbingly urn-like vase, a basket of distinctly female toiletries as if they're at a somber wedding, and a pink-cushioned vanity. There's no question this hospital has a different feel from the hospitals she's called home in the past. These strange two weeks in New York have been much like that: similar, in some ways, almost familiar, almost – recognizable, but still strange enough to stand out.

Strange enough that she can do things like take her daughter to the bathroom in the middle of the day, enjoy Zola's propensity for singing the alphabet song while otherwise engaged, and hear every one of her ever-more-complex thoughts and observations.

Vivian handles everything independently, as Meredith would expect. Watching her wash her hands, Meredith feels a pang that these two weeks of intense closeness with her daughter – free from work, from call and distractions – coincides with Viv's separation from her own mother.

Viv soaps her hands with the vigor of a miniature surgeon, standing on her tiptoes enough to reach everything. Zola, still at the age when slapping sudsy water to get herself – and her mother – wet is terribly amusing, seems delightfully young and innocent in comparison. Meredith drops a kiss on her head.

Setting Zola down, Meredith glances quickly at her reflection in the large mirrors – more habit than anything, she's certainly not expecting to look fabulous in the kind of weather where carrying her daughter leaves a Zola-shaped sweat print on even her lightest shirts.

In her peripheral vision, she sees Vivian doing the same thing. Her long hair is tangled – if anyone has brushed it today, it's not apparent. Against the rubber background of her flip-flops, Meredith sees the buddy tape she applied to Viv's broken toe. With everything going on in the child's life, they've been letting it get wet and then dry – it's unlikely anyone has changed the tape.

As a result, the buddy tape looks grubby now, a reminder of how long it was since the first time Meredith took Vivian out with Zola, returning to find Addison unexpectedly back home.

Viv sees her looking. "Is it all better now?" she asks.

"It probably needs a little more time," Meredith says. "We should change the tape, though – maybe later today."

"Maybe." Viv pushes the big door open herself.

Mark is standing right outside, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. He reaches down when he sees Vivian and she lets him lift her up.

"There wasn't anyone else in there," she tells him, "but it's still supposed to be all girls."

"Did you thank Meredith?"

Meredith doesn't bother to say that she shouldn't bother.

"Thank you for taking me to the bathroom," Viv says politely. She turns back to her father. " _Now_ can we go back to Mommy's room?"

"Not yet, baby, remember, she has to do some things with the doctors first." He glances at Meredith. "Just some post-op testing. Amy's with her."

"When will she be done?"

"In a little while, Viv. Come on, let's go back to the sitting area."

Meredith notices he doesn't say _waiting room._

"Is she still there?" Viv asks.

"I think so, yeah."

Viv makes a face, and then Mark glances at Meredith. "Yeah, I should probably warn you…."

…

So much has changed in the intervening years. Addison's mother … not so much, it seems.

She studies him coolly, looking vaguely interested in his presence, rather than surprised. It's not easy to surprise Bizzy, in his recollection.

"How have you been?" she asks after a moment.

It's the WASP version of _what the hell are you doing here_.

"My mother had surgery here last week," he says. It's certainly easier than explaining the rest.

"And she's doing better now, I trust?"

He nods.

"Good. Please give her my best." She pauses. "I assume you've seen Mark."

Derek nods.

"And my granddaughter."

"Yes. She's a great kid," he says, realizing after he says it that _great kid_ might not be a concept Bizzy actually comprehends, or values. Perhaps he should have gone with _well behaved_ , although that seems to vary – understandably – based on the circumstances.

"Vivian is with her father now," Bizzy says.

When Derek doesn't respond, she presses her lips together slightly, suggesting disapproval. "He's with her constantly," she says. "From the beginning, I offered to – "

Derek waits for her to say _watch Vivian_ , though it's hard for him to imagine Bizzy as babysitter.

" – hire someone," Bizzy finishes, which makes more sense. "But they said Vivian wouldn't go with just anyone, and certainly not someone new." Bizzy's tone makes clear what she thinks of that restriction. "Odd," she says, "and modern, I suppose. My daughter certainly never complained about her caretakers at that age."

Well. That contrast makes sense. Derek can't help but feel it's a good thing that Viv, who has been raised by loving adults, both parental and professional, doesn't want to be taken care of by strangers. Addison, though? He knows enough, from when they were married, not to be surprised that in the course of her neglectful childhood she would gladly accept attention from anyone who was willing to spend time with her.

And it makes sense Bizzy would think _that's_ a good thing.

Neither of them mentions Addison by name – Bizzy, as Derek knows, prefers to avoid calling anything by name, and he's not sure what to say himself: ask her how Addison is doing? _Tell_ her, if she doesn't have updated information either? Then again, she's here in the private waiting room, suggesting she's been with Mark and Vivian.

He wouldn't mind asking her too, _what are you doing here?_ But he recalls Mark suggesting, at their first meeting, that Bizzy was more involved – and even helpful – than one might have expected.

He decides a change of subject is the safest course.

"How's, uh, how's the Captain?" Derek asks, finding himself wincing a little when he says the man's nickname, just like he remembers.

"We're divorced," Bizzy says bluntly, "if my daughter hasn't informed you. But he's doing well, of course. He's the Captain, he always does well. He's taken a visiting post in London this year."

Somehow, Bizzy is able to turn that brief update on her ex-husband into a clear statement: _he had to switch continents because he's already screwed every woman on this one._

"Daddy!"

Zola's delighted squeal interrupts a silence that's rapidly becoming awkward, and Derek has to move quickly to catch the little ball of energy hurling herself across the threshold from the hallway.

"Hey!" He kisses her cheek.

"All set." Meredith catches up, giving him a rueful glance.

Derek sees Bizzy scan his wife – it's subtle, but he's seen her do it so many times. It reminds him of science fiction, computer, fast-motion analysis of everything about someone Bizzy can draw from their appearance, their presentation.

Because appearance is everything, for her.

"Bizzy, this is my wife, Meredith. Mer, Bizzy is, uh, she's Addison's mother."

 _In a manner of speaking._

She's so different from Meredith that just the contact of their hands feels like it shouldn't work, but it goes off without a hitch. If Bizzy knows Meredith's smile is the one normally reserved for difficult patients … there's no indication.

"And who is this young lady?"

Derek gives the young lady in question another kiss on the cheek. "This is our daughter, Zola."

Bizzy puts out her hand to shake, and for a moment Derek almost laughs at the uncertainty.

But then Zola puts one of her little hands in Bizzy's, and Bizzy pumps it up and down solemnly before she releases it, and for the first time since the distinctly unpleasant memory of meeting his former mother-in-law more than twenty years ago, Derek can say the word _adorable_ in a sentence that also includes Bizzy.

Another surprise.

Zola is smiling at this new stranger, very much her sunny self.

"She's a beautiful child," Bizzy says.

"Thank you," Derek says, still feeling a little nonplussed.

Zola suddenly leans away from his arms, reaching for Bizzy's sparkling necklace. " _Pretty_ ," she murmurs happily, straining to touch the jewel in the center.

"Sorry." Derek shifts his daughter closer, a little embarrassed but mostly protective, remembering stories Addison used to tell him about Bizzy slapping her hands away from things she shouldn't touch.

"It's perfectly all right." Bizzy actually smiles, a little bit. "The child has good taste."

"It's mine?" Zola asks, smiling sweetly and pointing at the necklace.

Bizzy looks pensive for a moment. "I'll tell you what I used to tell my daughter, dear. It's still mine until I'm dead."

Derek winces. Zola, unperturbed, turns in his arms, and adopts a look of great concern.

" _Where_ did Vivi go?" she asks, loudly.

Derek is waiting for Bizzy to criticize his daughter's manners – and prepared to defend her – when he hears the flip-flopping behind him that suggests Viv is approaching.

She's hand in hand with Mark, scowling a little, but her face brightens considerably when she sees Zola.

" _Hi_ ," Zola breathes next to him, her little body rigid with excitement, and it's impossible, as it so often is, not to smile when he's with his daughter.

Meredith is smiling too. "You'd think they'd been separated for more than five seconds," she murmurs to Derek.

"Hi." Viv smiles back at Zola.

Zola points at Bizzy. "Teacher," she says confidently.

Derek has to hide a smile again, and doesn't miss Bizzy's lifted brow.

"That's not a teacher, that's Bizzy." Viv's expression, aimed at her grandmother, is neutral, but Derek can't help but notice that Mark seems to be encouraging Vivian to stay back in much the same way he did with Zola.

"Vivian." Bizzy nods at her, looking _almost_ fond. "Just look at the state of your hair, dear. It's in dire need of a cut."

"No it's not," Viv says, scowling. Mark rests a hand on the top of her head.

"Bizzy," he says quietly. "Things have been …."

"I know that, dear. That's why I'm offering to help. … if you need me to make an appointment – "

"I'm _not_ cutting my hair!" Viv shouts without warning. Derek has seen her upset many times at this point, but other than the night he took her with him from the townhouse, he hasn't heard her raise her voice.

"Don't yell," Mark tells her firmly.

"I want to go now." Viv tugs on her father's hand. "Let's go."

"We're not going yet. Settle down, Vivi, come on." Mark looks frustrated; when Vivian keeps pulling at his hand he lifts her up instead.

He looks toward the propped open door of the family waiting room.

"Mark," Bizzy says again. "I'm sure it's been … challenging, caring for her on your own. That said …."

The end of her sentence feels like barely-veiled judgment.

"Bizzy." Mark looks exhausted. "It's been a long day."

"Yes, of course. I only came to say hello, of course, and see if you needed anything."

"I know. Thank you. We're okay. Addison, uh, she wanted me to thank you for coming by, and maybe you can come back when – "

"Perhaps." Bizzy gives first Mark and then Viv a tight smile. "Vivian, it was good to see you, dear."

Viv's thumb is in her mouth; she's watching her grandmother but she doesn't respond.

"Vivi … say goodbye to Bizzy," Mark directs her, removing her thumb from her mouth when she doesn't comply. "Don't be rude."

Viv's gaze is just this side of murderous. "…bye," she says after a provocative silence, and then sticks her thumb back in her mouth as soon as Mark releases her hand.

"Sorry." Mark shifts Vivian in his arms. "We don't have a lot of time to work on manners these days."

He manages to sound defensive of Viv and a little frustrated with her at the same time.

Bizzy just nods, and after exchanging polite goodbyes with both Derek and Meredith, she sets off down the hall, her heels clacking audibly on the linoleum floor.

"Bye, Bizzy!" Zola yells cheerfully, her voice loud enough to carry across the hallway. It causes multiple people to turn around, and Bizzy, who was always strongly of the only-proper-to-be-in-the-paper-twice-in-one's-life model of discretion, to pause in what, even from back, is clearly a benevolently annoyed manner.

Derek kisses his beaming daughter on the cheek. It's so many adjectives, of course, but sometimes fatherhood is just so _entertaining_.

…

"Sorry," Mark says again once the remaining adults have settled onto one of the couches that line the perimeter of the family waiting room and Vivian and Zola are sharing a picture book on another. "Bizzy came by before – well, she was in the neighborhood, but the timing didn't really work for her to see Addison."

His phrasing suggests there might be more to it, but Derek doesn't push it. His blackberry buzzes before he could, at any rate, and he reads a message from his sister.

"Everything okay?" Mark asks.

"Yes. It's about my mom."

"Oh." Mark glances over. "You said she had an appointment? You should go."

"Actually." Derek glances at his wife. "She asked for Meredith."

"Me?" Meredith's eyes widen.

"You." Derek holds his blackberry aloft as proof. "What exactly did you two do this morning while I was gone?"

"I guess we … bonded." Meredith raises her eyebrows at his expression. "I can bond," she says.

"Apparently so." It's his turn to raise his eyebrows, and he can see that she's trying not to smile.

They exchange another few silent words before Meredith stands up. "I'll go."

"Really?"

"Really." She glances at Zola.

Derek recognizes her expression, knowing that the daycare instructors tell them it's best just to leave without making a production of it.

But here, in this room?

During these strange two weeks when Derek and Meredith have spent pretty much every waking moment with their daughter?

"Zozo? Viv?" Meredith waits for both girls to look at her. "I'm going to go see Zola's grammy. I'll be back soon."

Zola places one pudgy little hand on the splayed-open book while, apparently, she decides how to react to her mother's imminent departure.

"Gummy bears …?" she barters hopefully.

"I'll think about it." Meredith blows her daughter a kiss and Zola, beaming, catches it.

Derek gets his kiss directly, and then Meredith is gone.

…

Meredith hears the sound of relatively lighthearted bickering before the door even opens.

"You do realize this is a different kind of therapy, right?"

"Do I look like an idiot?"

"Why do you give me straight lines if you don't want me to – Meredith!" Nancy opens the door wide, giving her a big hostess smile. "Come in."

She does, a little warily.

 _In_ is a large, sunny physical therapy room. Her mother-in-law is standing between two padded bars while two physical therapists speak quietly to her.

Kathleen walks over as soon as Nancy does. "Mom wanted you to join us," she says, her voice low. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Meredith says, still a little confused.

"Meredith, dear." Carolyn beckons to her.

"Can you do another five on the right side?" The younger PT asks.

"Of course I can." Carolyn smiles at her. "But I just need to speak to my daughter-in-law first. You don't mind, do you?"

The therapist looks like she's not sure how to answer and Carolyn, looking satisfied, turns to Meredith.

"Now, I didn't want to worry you, but Nancy mentioned that …" She lowers her voice. "Addison's mother might be here, and I wanted to warn you."

Meredith is jointly amused and touched that Derek's family is looking out for her. "She's not here … but she was," she tells her mother-in-law.

"Ah. So I'm too late." Carolyn sighs. "I was hoping I could catch you in time."

"It's okay," Meredith says. "Really."

Okay, so you could pretty much feel the ice coming off that woman in waves, but she doesn't need to say that out loud.

"She's a … witch," Nancy says, clearly making a last minute vocabulary change at a look from her mother. "I don't know, I think it's weird that Addie even talks to her."

Meredith thinks about what she witnessed at Derek's niece's wedding so many years ago, and what she's learned about Amy's problems endangering Vivian, and isn't surprised at all that Addison was forgiving of whatever happened between her and her mother.

Carolyn looks at Meredith for a moment. "I'm sorry I was too late to warn you."

"No, it really is fine. She seemed … interesting."

Nancy laughs now, sounding genuinely amused. "Don't be too nice about her, Meredith, or we'll have to wonder whether you actually like _us._ "

Kathleen raises an eyebrow at Meredith behind Nancy's back and Carolyn starts to scold them, apparently forgetting again that they're not teenagers,

…

"Your mom won Meredith over, huh?" Mark asks. He's sitting on a soft couch but looking anything but relaxed, elbows on his spread knees, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"I think maybe they won each other over," Derek says.

"Yeah." Mark looks at the two little girls reading together. "Is Meredith's mom – "

Derek shakes his head.

"Most people don't have a mom like yours," Mark observes.

He knows it's not intended to make him feel guilty for the years he's spent estranged from his family. But he feels the sting anyway

"So." Derek considers their interaction with Mark's mother-in-law. "Bizzy was here," he summarizes quietly.

"Briefly. You know. She's … Bizzy." Mark grimaces. "She's actually been – helpful, in her way. With the clinic. She saw Addison when she was here the first time. She's not great with Viv, but, you know, it could be worse." He glances at Derek, an unspoken agreement that both men know what he means.

He seems to notice that Vivian is watching him now, while Zola has flung down her book and is coloring instead with a crayon in each fist. "She, uh, we do hang out with Bizzy sometimes. Right, Viv?"

Vivian nods. "She gave me this," she says. "Today." She turns so Derek can see too and then reaches into the neck of her t-shirt and pulls out a gold pendant on a chain. Leaning a little closer, Derek can see that it's actually a small, gold letter A, in script, clearly a child's necklace.

He expresses what he hopes is the appropriate level of admiration – far more subdued than Zola requires.

"It was my mom's before. When she was little," Viv explains.

That explains the _A_.

"Bizzy said it was still at her house 'cause my mom didn't take good care of her things."

Derek can see Mark flinch out of the corner of his eye and can't blame him. Derek could never say he wore blinders to Addison's faults, not even when they were married and certainly not now, but being careless with jewelry – even as a little girl – feels particularly inaccurate as well as unfair.

"Bizzy said it's also what I should get in school for every class," Vivian continues.

Nothing like a little pressure along with a nice gesture.

"Yeah, just your average sweet grandmotherly present," Mark mutters to Derek. To his daughter he says: "You don't need to keep wearing it if you don't want to, Vivi."

"I like it." Viv toys with the chain around her neck, studying the pendant, then turns to her father. "Is Mommy done with the doctors yet?"

"Not yet, baby. We'll know as soon as she is."

Vivian toes the floor with one of her flip flops. "What if they don't know where we are?"

"They know. That's why we're in this room. It's just for us, so they can come find us. Okay?"

Viv looks like she's about to protest when Zola calls her name, tromping over with alacrity from the other couch.

"Vivi." Zola pats Viv's messy hair urgently. " _Where_ did Bizzy go?" Her tone is one of genuinely fascinated curiosity. She also seems to like that the strange woman has the same name as the word _busy_ , because she repeats it a few times under her breath, smiling to herself.

Viv shrugs a little. "Home, I guess," she says.

Derek glances at Mark.

"Yeah … they keep an apartment near the park," Mark confirms, glancing at Derek, who realizes he's been there, in a previous life. "Bizzy sometimes stops by when she's in town."

Zola, though, is still trying to sort out Bizzy's peremptory manner, apparently, and now she turns to Vivian.

"Vivi!" She waits for the older girl to look at her. "Bizzy is _your_ teacher?"

Derek sees Mark is trying not to smile too.

"No. She's my grandma, but she doesn't like _grandma_ ," Viv says. "Just Bizzy. She says being someone's mother or grandmother shouldn't define you."

Mark looks uncomfortable – Derek assumes this is another example of Vivian's picking up more than her father would prefer from adult conversations around her, and he's not quite sure she understands what the phrase _shouldn't define you_ means in this context.

But he also recognizes Bizzy's unfortunate theory of motherhood from his first marriage. So she's perpetuated it into the next generation – or tried to, anyway.

Viv turns to her father, looking unscathed and even smiling a little. "Can I call you _Mark_?" she asks, a teasing note in her voice, and it has the sense of an old joke between them on the topic of names.

It's bittersweet seeing a playful side of Viv; Derek is aware that Mark and Vivian's strained relationship is only a part of their history, but has had almost no contact with them outside of it.

"Well … you can try," Mark says with mock threat, lifting Viv onto his lap and tickling her. She laughs – it echoes with surprising volume in the family waiting room, unexpectedly – and then grabs at his hands. He wraps his arms around her and she settles against him.

Mark kisses the top of her head, looking pensive.

"Bizzy is not _my_ grandma," Zola says tentatively, glancing at Derek, apparently still aiming to confirm everyone's roles. He's impressed as always with how her syntax is moving from toddler to small girl.

"No, she's not." Derek smiles at his daughter. "Grammy is your grandma, and we're going to see her in a little bit, after this. Okay?"

"Okay," Zola says. "Vivi!"

Vivian looks over at her.

"You can share with me," Zola says grandly, and Derek, impressed with both her syntax and her sweetness, can't resist scooping her up. They stay like that, both girls settled on their fathers' laps, until a resident knocks on the door to tell them Addison is back from her post-op tests.

…

"So let me get this straight," Liz says, setting her fork down on her plate and looking from one sibling to the other across the large round table. "Addison and the baby both came through surgery."

"With flying colors," Nancy intercedes, taking a small bite of salad. "Well, colors, anyway."

"And Vivian is okay," Liz continues, glancing at Derek across the table.

"She's okay," Derek confirms, reaching out to steady the bottle of ketchup before Zola's enthusiastic gestures can knock it over. She shoots him a wounded look and climbs down from her chair, seeking solace on the lap of her teenaged cousin. "I mean, under the circumstances. I think she's just happy to be able to see her mother."

Meredith touches his arm gently. She's been quiet support since they got here, to this unlikely group celebration. With all his fears of her being overwhelmed by the size and volume of his family, he has to admit she's fit in remarkably well.

It's a sign of the miraculous nature of these two weeks, perhaps, that he's willing to credit his sisters as well as his wife for this.

Nancy's eyes are soft for a moment, uncharacteristically so.

"What?" he asks, curious.

"Nothing, just – we're really having a Shepherd dinner, and everyone really got good news today. It's … strange."

"Strange?" Kathleen chimes in. "Isn't it a good thing?"

"Of course." Nancy glances at Derek. "I just didn't expect it, that's all."

"Those are the nicest surprises," Liz offers. "Derek, we're going to miss you and Meredith, and we wanted to have a chance to get all of us together for dinner."

"Almost all of us," Nancy corrects.

"Actually … all of us," a voice interjects.

They all turn to see … the youngest sibling, looking a little heat-wilted, sunglasses perched on top of a messy up-do.

"Amy!" Carolyn beams at her. "I didn't know you could join us."

"I figured I'd surprise you," she says. "… in a nice way, this time."

Nancy's lips are tight, but she seems to relax a little when Amy looks her way. "Nance … you were great in there," Amy says.

Nancy flushes a little. "I didn't do anything."

"Sure you did. You kept that little tadpole alive."

"Are you a doctor?" Nancy looks amused, though. "I'm just glad it went so well," she says, her face turning more serious.

"Yeah. Me too." Amy leans over to kiss her mother's cheek and gives a grinning Zola a little wave. "What's for dinner?"

Chloe pushes her plate of fries closer to her aunt; Amy, in response, takes a handful and grins at her niece. "Thanks, Chlo. You always had good taste in food."

"That's because _you_ always ate like a teenager," Nancy says, but her tone, while teasing, is affectionate. "Not that you could tell," she adds ruefully.

"I'm definitely not a teenager anymore," Amy says. "Speaking of teenagers … are the girls coming?"

Her face is neutral, as if it's a simple question.

"They have a night game tonight," Nancy says. "They'll join us later, if we're still out."

"Still out." Liz's eyes widen. "Nancy, what did you have in mind?"

"Very funny."

Kathleen interrupts, pointing at the empty seat between Meredith and Derek. "Sit down, Amy. There's a chair for you already, since Zola doesn't seem to need hers."

Zola looks up at her name and smiles widely. She seems to be enjoying her time sitting on Chloe's lap, with Kathleen's daughter Lucy and Liz's daughter Caitlin on her other sides. As in previous encounters, the girls can't seem to do enough for Zola, and his daughter is basking in the attention.

"She's going to be really bored when we get back to Seattle," Derek says ruefully, as Amy draws back the chair next to him and flops into it.

"Stay, then." Liz raises an eyebrow at him.

"You know we – "

"I'm just kidding. Don't stay. I know you're leaving tomorrow. Just – come back sooner, this time."

Derek exchanges a glance with Meredith. "We will," he says, and she nods in agreement as Amy takes a long sip of Derek's water without asking.

"What?" she asks when he looks at her. "It was hot out there!"

"Nothing," Derek says. The waiter's already brought him a fresh one; it's fine.

He's rolling Liz's words over in his mind, though.

 _I know you're leaving tomorrow._

Tomorrow!

It seems terribly soon, and yet it's hard not to feel they've come full circle.

His family – his big, messy, loud, utterly imperfect family – gathered around a single table, breaking bread.

Well, not Nancy, who eschews carbohydrates – but still, eating together.

His old friend, no longer estranged, celebrating the unlikely continued existence of his fragile family.

His daughter, the center of their universe, now the center of a larger one.

Sunlight is streaming through the blinds; they're in a faceless diner and it could be anywhere and everywhere all at once.

Derek feels a small hand cover his, squeezing. He hasn't said anything about feeling overwhelmed, made any movement or gesture he could have named, and still Meredith seems to be aware.

He squeezes her hand back, gratitude a living thing on his tongue.

It's a moment of brief, intense sunshine and then the clink of ice as the waiter refills their water glasses.

"A toast!" Amy proposes, grinning, holding her – well, Derek's – newly filled water glass aloft. "To the magic of babydoctors." She points her glass in Nancy's direction.

Nancy makes a face at her. "To cross-country reunions," she says after a moment.

"To cousins," Kathleen adds, smiling at the three teenaged girls fussing over Zola.

"To family old and new," Liz says, smiling warmly at Meredith.

Derek, realizing he's on the spot, directs his glass toward their mother. "To Mom," he says simply.

"Hear, hear." Nancy raises her glass higher, and the other siblings do the same.

"Well." Their mother looks a little flustered. "To children, then. Mine … and yours. You're all too young to know this, but seeing your own children as mothers and fathers …." Her voice trails off.

"Actually – I'm not too young," Liz says, her dark eyes sparkling.

"What do you mean?"

Derek sees that Caitlin and Chloe both look like they're suppressing big smiles.

"Clara's pregnant," Liz says, grinning. "And she misses all of you and she wanted me to tell you."

It's what Derek remembers from every pregnancy announcement his sisters made during his life in New York, with cries of delight and _congratulations_ and _oh my god_ and all sorts of questions: the sex. The development. Their plans.

"You're going to be an aunt, Chloe!" Lucy says with delight.

"Me too," Caitlin reminds her, beaming.

"Me too!" Zola adds happily, with as much excitement as her cousins. No one corrects her, enjoying her enthusiasm, and it produces another wave of delighted conversation.

"And _you_ are going to be a grandmother," Nancy says, staring at Liz. "Lizzie … that's crazy."

"Thank you, Nancy." Liz shakes her head, but can't seem to keep from smiling. "It'll happen to you – not yet, I mean," she adds.

"Grandma Liz." Kathleen is smiling too. "We'll have two new babies in the family."

Derek realizes she's including his unborn son, and finds himself touched.

"Now we just have to work on getting Clara to move back here," Liz says.

"If you can figure out how to do it … let me know," Carolyn replies, but her smile aimed at Derek and Meredith is warm with no accusation.

"Mom," Derek says quietly.

"No, dear, I don't mean it like that. Just – you'll visit again. Won't you? Next summer, with your little one here, and Clara's …."

"We'll visit."

It's Meredith who says it, and when he shoots her a _you don't have to say that_ look he sees that her eyes are clear and open. She means it.

He kisses her, impulsively; Nancy clears her throat audibly and they break apart.

"It's okay," Nancy says with a grin, "she's already pregnant."

"Nancy!" Carolyn frowns at her. "Really, dear, there are children at the table."

The children – teenagers and one very engrossed toddler – don't seem to have noticed anything awry.

"Sorry," Nancy says contritely.

"Well." Carolyn dabs at her eyes, apparently still a little overcome. "I'm just so happy to have all of you in one place."

And still neither Nancy nor Amy says anything snarky, and Derek is reasonably impressed.

He's trying to decide whether calling attention to their truce would be productive or counter when his blackberry buzzes in his pocket.

One look at the screen and his heart speeds up.

"It's Mark," he tells Meredith quietly, staring at the device in his hand.

She gives him a gentle, encouraging nod, and he accepts the call.

"Mark?" His voice cracks, despite himself.

"Derek. Hey."

"Is everything – "

"Everything's okay," Mark says quickly. "Sorry. You did ask me to update – "

"Right." Derek exhales, relief coursing through him. Of course he did.

"So, yeah, they finished looking at the baby. And he's still hanging in there – heartbeat steady, fetal echo normal. And she's stable."

Derek blinks.

"That's – incredible," he says.

"Yeah. It is." Mark sounds like he doesn't quite believe it himself.

"What is it?" Liz is looking at him anxiously, and Derek turns away from the phone for a moment.

"Everything's fine – it's going well," he says quietly, and the table of Shepherds is consumed with a combination of relief and celebratory murmurs.

He hears another phone ringing as he and Mark say goodbye.

It's Nancy's this time, and his mother clucks with minor disapproval. "I remember when there were no phones at the table," she says. "You had to actually use a telephone if you wanted to call someone."

"And you walked uphill both ways to school," Amy interjects with a grin, "not to mention church."

Nancy, who's turned slightly away to take her call, doesn't seem to notice.

"I'll have you know," their mother begins, looking like she's trying not to smile, "that we – "

But whatever she was about to say never gets heard.

It's interrupted by a scream.

One long, terrible scream from Nancy.

It's a sound Derek has heard before, and one he never thought he'd hear again.

The last time was more than thirty years ago – the night their father didn't come home.

* * *

 _To be continued, and I will do my best not to make you wait too long, I promise. I know you might hate me for cliff-ing you, but how about if I say I think it will be worth waiting? Or at least that I hope so. Please throw me a bone and don't just tell me you hate me for the cliff. Tell me you liked the other 7,000 words too. Review because it's the single most motivating thing you can do, and I love reading your thoughts, and they are crack for my writing fingers._


	51. a thousand tiny pieces

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter, and for your response to this story overall.** It's incredibly long at this point - with hindsight, I might have split it into two stories, but I didn't, so here it is: long. And this chapter is very, very long. But you were so patient with my cliffhanger, and you deserve a long chapter. I have loved writing this story and exploring the different paths and connections between Derek and his past and his present and his future on two coasts, with two parts of his family. I envision three to four more chapters of this story, if you're counting, but I'll admit because I'm shameless as anything that I've already started outlining the sequel. **That said, do me a favor and please read the author's note at the end of the story. I strongly, _strongly_ suggest it.**

I hope you enjoy this chapter. As always, thank you for reading.

* * *

 _a thousand tiny pieces  
..._

* * *

In later years, when he takes apart the trip to New York – the reason they went and the reason they stayed, the plans they imagined and the ones that replaced them – he will be able to reconstruct some things, but not others.

The space between the restaurant – between Nancy's scream and the chaos that descended after it and – somehow worse – the unearthly silence that followed it – and the hospital?

That will remain vague, as much a blur as it was the first time.

How they got from point A to point B.

From the restaurant with its cheerful paper placemats and wall-mounted seaside prints to the fluorescent lighting of the chaotic midtown hospital. They're shuttled into a waiting room as square and blank as an empty placemat, its cinderblock walls lined with cracked blue pleather couches.

Here, in the hospital, the waiting room feels deserted and bleak.

Like a place where something happened, like yellow police tape should cordon it off.

Police officers are there, in blue.

They're holding their hats.

It's this position that, more than his sister's scream, speaks of the seriousness of the situation.

Derek stays back in the glut of anxious Shepherds while the officers take aside Nancy – and Steve, who met them there with eerie calm but terror in his eyes.

 _What happened?_

They ask this: of the police, of each other, of the doctors who join them. Derek moves forward at the word _skull_. At the word _pressure._

"Your daughters weren't carrying identification," the officer is explaining.

"Couldn't they tell you who they were?" Nancy's voice is shrill with panic. "Couldn't you just ask?"

"Nance." Steve's arm is around her. "Let him talk."

The car – or what _was_ the car – was registered to Nancy. _Nancy Byrne_ , and in the chaos and fear of the collision, the destruction, lives hanging in the balance, Derek is momentarily distracted by the memory of Nancy's inconsistent surname hyphenation, recalling how she'd huff and complain when she had to fill in the alias portions of legal documents. He hasn't thought about this since the legalization of his own marriage, when he assured Meredith he had no desire for her to take on that logistical hassle. That all he wanted was her, not her name.

 _Byrne_ versus _Shepherd-Byrne_ and why the hell is he thinking about this now when it doesn't matter at all?

He's thinking about it now because his brain is protecting him from what the doctors are saying.

It's trying.

But he pushes past it.

"Sarah identified the others. She was sitting behind the driver," the shorter doctor is saying when he tunes back in. The police are gone now. It's doctors and family, green scrubs and white coats. "She has some minor blunt force injuries from the collision, and her right wrist is broken. She's conscious and oriented; she's down in radiology right now."

Derek recognizes the order of their report as soon as the doctors move on.

"Your son was driving the vehicle," another doctor weighs in. "He sustained considerable facial trauma from the force of the airbag at the time of the collision."

"He wasn't wearing a seat belt," Steve seems to realize, some of the color draining from his face.

 _He doesn't have a license_ , he's fifteen, but no one says this out loud.

"Stabilizing him is obviously our first concern right now. We expect him to make a full recovery, dependent on any internal injuries that we're going to continue to monitor him for. Down the line there will be surgical options, possible cosmetic procedures you may want to consider."

"But he's … "

"He's uncomfortable." The doctor pauses. "We ran a standard tox screen. Law enforcement at the scene –"

And the buzzing starts again, tuning out words he's not sure he's ready to hear yet.

"What about Joy?" Nancy is asking, her voice shrill with panic. "You didn't say anything about Joy."

His pause is enough to make Nancy inhale sharply.

"Joy was sitting on the passenger side of the front seat. Her injuries are the most complicated," the doctor says in a careful, distanced tone Derek recognizes all too well.

And he listens as the doctor begins a speech Derek has given many times, to many families. Like every time he has given it, it includes the _what_ and the _where_ , but no _why_. There is no _why_ some head trauma divides in speed and force, the collision of the skull against an object – here, a car – faster than the brain moves to compensate.

"She presented with intracranial bleeding and increasing pressure that needed to be relieved – "

There's a muffled cry from Nancy.

"She also suffered a fractured pelvis and her right leg was compromised by the angle at which the vehicle the barrier wall. We took her into surgery immediately – there was no time to wait for consent or to inform you, I'm sorry."

Derek is familiar with _no time_ procedures.

"They're still working on her. The goal was to treat the hemorrhage endoscopically – she's young, and preservation is obviously our first concern. They may need to go open if she can't be stabilized. I'll bring you that update when I can."

Nancy is shaking, visibly; Derek can see it in the way Steve's watch band – his arm is tight around her shoulders – moves up and down.

"Our first priority is stemming the bleed and relieving the pressure in her skull. Her neurosurgeon will talk to you once she's stable, about – prognosis, about possibilities."

"But … she always wears her seatbelt," Nancy whispers.

The doctor, nearing middle age with tired eyes, doesn't seem to think this is a non sequitur. He presses his lips together. "Your daughter was wearing a seat belt," he assures her. "Without forensics on the car … it's likely that her small frame and low body weight left enough slack to increase the force of the air bag. The impact was on the right side of the car."

Derek is standing slightly behind his sister and brother-in-law but can see the tension in their shoulders alone from the words _force_ and _impact._

"The other passenger," Steve asks quietly, echoing something the police said. "He was on the right side of the car too. Did he – "

"We can't release any information on anyone other than your children," the doctor says.

Steve and Nancy exchange a glance.

"I want my brother to review Joy's scans," Nancy whispers. "He's a … a neurosurgeon and I want his opinion."

"Certainly, Dr. Byrne. We can arrange for that. As soon as we've stemmed the bleed we're going to take a new set of images. We'll have a clearer picture then of any other damage."

"And … and my sister too," Nancy says, glancing at Amy. "Please," she says softly.

"Of course." Amy squeezes her hand and then there's nothing left to do but wait.

More waiting.

…

In the blank echoing waiting room, they trade information back and forth. Words like heartbeats, staccato.

 _Jesse was driving._

"He doesn't … he can't even get a permit for two years, not here," Nancy says in a low voice. She looks to her siblings. "I don't think he even – he hasn't even driven anything. The boat. Maybe the boat. But Steve was watching him …"

 _The twins were in the car._

"Why were they with him? The girls?" Nancy's voice is scratchy . No one has more information than she does, but they trade it back and forth anyway.

"I don't know," Steve says quietly.

"He went home. But he doesn't have a key. The girls – they wouldn't have …"

No one says anything.

"Where were they going?"

"I don't know, Nance. We'll have to ask them."

 _The passenger._

"And the fourth person," Nancy says. "He was – "

"Also from the Center," Steve reminds her, his voice low. "He and Jess – they seem to have left together, that's what the counselor told the police."

"But he's – "

Steve shakes his head, wordlessly.

"His family isn't here," Nancy says tentatively. "Or if they are …"

 _The police._

"They said they did a tox screen …" Nancy's voice is shaking. "The police …"

"There was no other car," Amy reminds her.

"But there was another passenger," Nancy says. "The other boy from the Center. What if he's …"

No one has an answer for that.

…

They wait, the clock on the wall dragging minutes back and forth, Zola turning the pages of a board book with her cousins, palming the crayons Meredith keeps in her bag.

When she fusses Meredith stands up with her, takes her to the cafeteria in search of milk – or maybe ice cream – the four teenaged cousins accompanying her.

Then there are only the five siblings in the waiting room, and their mother, and Steve.

"I need to be in there," Nancy says, pacing. "I need to see her."

"We have to let them work on her first," Steve says reasonably, and she turns on him.

"I don't care what they say! I need to be in there!"

"Nancy."

"She needs me." Nancy's voice is hoarse, all traces of reason gone from it.

Derek sees the moment she starts to break for the door; Steve sees first and is between his wife and the doorway before anyone else can react.

"We need to wait, honey," he says gently when Nancy attempts to push past him, moving to block her. She shoves him impatiently.

"No, I need to – would you just – Steve, _move_ ," Nancy snaps, pushing him again, harder now. She's tall but spindly, Steve twice her breadth, and he doesn't budge.

This time when she launches herself at him he grips her forearms and holds her still. "Nancy. We need to stay here while they help her," he says when she resists, still sounding calm.

"Let go of me."

"I will, when you calm down. Let's go sit – "

"I'm not sitting! I need to be with my daughter. Let _go_."

Derek glances nervously at Liz, who has tears in her eyes. Steve seems to have the situation under control, but he can't decide if they're making it better or worse with their presence.

"Nancy." Steve is still holding onto her. "Listen to me."

"No, it's not – what if she – "

"We have to stay calm," Steve's voice is low and firm, all his focus on Nancy, and Derek can see that it's working. "Joy needs us to be calm."

"I need to be with her," Nancy whispers.

"I know you do. You will be, just _not yet_." His voice never rises above its normal even level. Nancy isn't struggling anymore and when he releases her she steps forward into his arms, her whole body shaking as Steve holds her tightly against him. Derek can see he's saying something to her, too quietly for the others to hear. Tactfully, he looks away, but his peripheral vision shows him Steve holding Nancy for long moments in the doorway until she's relatively calm and then walking her back to the couches. There, they sink down together with no space between them, Steve's arm tight around her.

Nancy rests her face in her hands, elbows on her knees. Steve rubs her back wordlessly, his own face white and set.

And … they wait.

…

Shapes move in and out of the room, taking turns with the brief errands of nature of mercy required for long hospital waits.

Carly arrives – Liz's second youngest, first year medical student – with food for the waiting relatives, helped by the boy she's been dating whose name Derek can't remember although he knows he met him just last week at Liz's barbecue. All he can do is stare at their youthful unlined faces and try to make sense of the fact that they're the same age he was when he met Addison. He felt so mature then, starting out in medical school, ready to take on the world. Carly and her young man … seem likes babies. Tall, competent babies. But babies nonetheless.

Carly sits by his mother's side, their hands folded together. As one of the oldest grandchildren and the granddaughter named for Carolyn, she's always had a special relationship with her grandmother.

Words escape into the air like campfire smoke: words like _sleep_ and _go_ and _rest_ and _it will be a while._

Zola rests in her mother's arms now, crayon dangling unused from her little fingers, head drooping towards sleep. On the other vinyl couches, the older children prop tired chins in hands and on clenched fists.

And still they wait.

…

The next time the doctors come, it's for Jesse.

 _Stable_ , those are the words now.

And _police._ And _tests._

"Can we see him?" Steve asks.

"You can. Briefly."

"No." Nancy's hands are trembling. "I don't want to see him."

"Nancy," Steve says quietly, but she shakes her head.

"No. No!" she repeats when he starts to talk again. "You go see him if you want."

Steve looks helplessly across the room.

"He's conscious, and he's stable, but he's disoriented," the doctor continues, his tone a warning. "Not because of the head trauma."

"Then why – "

"He's withdrawing," the female doctor next to him says.

 _Police._

That word again.

The female doctor lingers past her colleague; Derek sees a wedding band on her left hand. "You should … call a lawyer," she tells Nancy, her voice low, as Steve heads to see their son.

…

Without Steve, Nancy doesn't seem to know what to do with herself. Physically. Derek's reminded of the gawky teenaged version of his sister, all long limbs and nowhere to put them.

She paces the room, occasionally picks up the coffee Liz brought her but then her hands shake too badly to drink.

"Nancy …"

She doesn't want to talk either, but she turns to Derek with her dark eyes flashing, as soon as they hear that Sarah, her CT clear, has been released from radiology.

Conscious.

Oriented.

"Sarah's back," Nancy says slowly.

"Sarah's back," he repeats. The least injured child, supervised now in Peds CCU while they monitor her for internal injuries and treat the minor damage to her growing body.

"I want to see her, but I need to stay here. Joy – " Nancy stops talking. Derek knows what she means.

She has to wait.

 _Waiting_ , in a hospital, has designated areas.

Like this one.

"And I – I don't know what to say to her," Nancy admits, her face white and drawn. "To Sarah. She'll have questions. She's going to ask questions, Derek."

"Okay." Derek rests a hand on his sister's shoulder, not sure how to comfort her. Certainly he's ill equipped to do so. "If you're not ready to see her, that's okay."

"But she's by herself." Nancy's pained eyes are cutting into him.

"You want me to go check on her?"

Slowly, Nancy nods.

"Okay. I'll go."

"Derek!"

He turns around.

"Tell her we love her."

His throat feels thick. "Of course I will."

…

He tracks the painted arrows on one wall after another all the way to the automatic doors that yawn wide for his arrival. He finds Sarah four curtains from the entrance, sitting up on a narrow pediatric bed in a printed hospital gown, her right arm wrapped in a pink cast.

The color of the plaster is a stark reminder of how young she is; he's not sure whether she chose it or a nurse did, but either way, the hospital bracelet around her skinny wrist attests that she was born not quite thirteen years ago. Despite the fact that she is already taller than both Amy and Meredith, she is still only twelve – not even a teenager – and when she raises haunted eyes to meet his she looks terribly young.

Young, and frightened.

And then he's a little frightened himself when he sees who else is in the room with her: a man and a woman in casually professional dress. Maternal, paternal, warm smiles.

Warm smiles, and spiral notebooks.

Police officers.

Plain-clothed and dressed to make children comfortable, except his niece looks anything but.

"Uncle Derek?" Sarah's voice is shaking.

"Hey, Sarah." He walks past the police officers, keeping his voice low and calm. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," she says tremulously. "Is my mom here?"

"She's here," Derek says, taking care with his words, "but she can't come see you quite yet."

He turns to the officers. "You probably want to wait to get her statement until one of her parents can be here."

They exchange a glance at his pointed words. "We only have a few questions. It's better when it's fresher in her mind."

"She's twelve years old," Derek says mildly, "so I'm sure you'd rather wait for her parents. Thank you," he adds. "We appreciate it."

He draws the curtain once he's confirmed the officers' reluctant exit, and turns back to his niece.

"Don't worry. I didn't tell them anything," Sarah says.

Her words send a chill through him. "Sarah …"

"Like you and Aunt Amy said, before. The police just want to take Jesse away. If they know stuff, they're going to take him away."

"Sarah – honey, that's not exactly what – "

"I don't remember anything anyway," Sarah interrupts him to say; Derek is reminded that in addition to being the crier, and the slightly taller one – all vis a vis her twin sister – Sarah is also not a very good liar.

"That's okay," he says, keeping his voice calm. Sarah looks good – better than he feared, but her face is pale underneath the bruises and while he still doesn't understand what led up to the collision that left all three children hospitalized, he knows it was traumatic.

"Where's Joy?" his niece asks now.

"She's here too. The doctors are helping her."

"She's worse than me," Sarah says slowly. Perhaps off Derek's expression, she explains: "She wasn't crying. Joy wasn't, in the car. But I heard them talking when they – when they were cutting us."

His niece's dark hair is in disarray; he brushes some of it out of her eyes, _cutting us_ : the jaws of life. Such a violent and yet optimistic phrase. He spent enough time in the ER as a medical student on rotation, as an intern, to know that _jaws of death_ was more than just blustery jargon.

"You remember," he starts tentatively, "when they were – "

"I already told you I don't remember what happened." Sarah looks away stubbornly. She resembles her mother, sharp and angular, but her resolute expression, the set of her features, calls to mind Amy now.

"It's okay," he says.

It has been seven years since he was a regular part of the lives of his nieces and nephews, but they are a part of his sisters and, in a way, of him – certainly of his mother, of his father, a living and breathing extension of the Shepherds into the next generation. He loved them, surely, when he lived in New York. Distance doesn't change that, does it? Or time.

But he has found that his feelings for them – affection, enjoyment of their company and their emerging personalities, and occasional bouts of protectiveness when necessary – have changed with his own fatherhood. Just as Mark's daughter's pain hurt him in a very specific way, filing him with fear and gratitude for his own child, so does seeing this broken version of Sarah.

He studies her face: there's a purpling bruise on one side of her forehead, extending down to her temple. A quick clinical glance is all it takes to know it's not serious – as _not serious_ as an injured twelve-year-old can be – and the pink-plaster cast conceals her broken wrist. She looks frightened and confused, and very small in the hospital gown. At her height she must have been too tall for a children's gown and the adult gown sags on her skinny body, making her look even smaller.

And she is the healthiest, and safest, of Nancy's three youngest children.

"Does Joy need surgery?" Sarah asks in a small voice. "Did she break something?"

Spoken like the child of two doctors, but the answer to that question is complicated.

"She's having surgery now," he says as soothingly as he can, having to rely on his own judgment for how much information to give her. "The doctors are helping her," he repeats.

Sarah nods slightly, then pauses. "What about Jess?"

"He's okay." Maybe he should try to end the conversation.

"He wasn't wearing his seat belt." Sarah's voice sounds rough, a little disused. He wonders if it's from crying. "Jesse wasn't. We told him to put it on but he wouldn't."

"I'm glad you girls were wearing yours." He smiles at her, doesn't call her on obviously remembering at least part of what happened before the accident.

"Joy … was worse than me," Sarah repeats. She looks up at him nervously; Derek can't be sure how much is anxiety and how much, if any, of potential neurological concern. She puts up with a few questions, even tracks a finger for him, without protest.

With her long legs curled on the pediatric bed, she looks like the child she is. He has a brief flash of memory of baby-sitting her when she was small – both twins, and Jesse too. Nancy and Steve must have been doing something with Emma and Sean. In his recollection he and Addison spent an afternoon trying to divide and conquer on a sun-dappled city playground, Sarah falling and skinning her knee anyway. He recalls her trusting tearful eyes, the way her legs dangled against green-painted wood when he sat her on a bench to examine the minor wounds. She must have been – three? Something like that. He remembers carrying her piggyback most of the way back to the brownstone, her tears drying when they spotted a Sir Tastee truck on their route. She ate her cone still a little sniffly, still wanting to be carried, ice cream dripping stickily down the front of his shirt. He remembers glancing over at Addison, who was wrangling both Jesse and Joy, with one of those pangs he felt occasionally when they spent time with his sisters' children.

 _Will we ever have this?_

By then, he must have known the answer was no.

"Uncle Derek?"

"Yeah." He smiles at her, hoping he looks reassuring even if he feels anything but right now.

"Can I see Joy?" Sarah asks again.

Before Derek can answer, the little curtained-off room is filling up – mercifully, with brightly colored scrubs, a fuzzy yellow duck clipped to the doctor's stethoscope. Sarah turns frightened eyes on her uncle, still skirting the edges of childhood and adolescence, her caregivers firmly in Peds.

Derek takes her good hand in his – it's small and cold, and he covers it with his other hand, a little concerned about her temperature.

"I'll be right back," he assures her, and as the nurses check her vitals he steps outside with the doctor.

"You're the father?"

"Uncle," he admits, hoping he can still get information. "But my sister – her mother – asked me to be here."

The doctor doesn't seem surprised by this, clearly having some understanding of the number of family members involved in the accident.

"She was very lucky," the doctor says, indicating Sarah with a tip of her chin toward the closed curtain.

Derek nods.

"I understand her siblings are here. We're going to admit her," the doctor says, her tone smooth even as Derek thinks he could collapse with gratitude. "Her CT was clear; her wrist is a simple fracture and she's been checked for internal injuries, but I'd like her monitored overnight. And it doesn't seem that – discharging her makes much sense," she adds.

"She seems a little disoriented," Derek says.

"She was in a traumatic collision." The doctors' tone is neutral, even. "The paramedics reported she was conscious the entire time, and her placement in the vehicle means she was the last one to be removed."

Derek nods, reminding himself that clinical detachment is key here, that Nancy sent him in to do what she couldn't.

But when Sarah looks up as he reenters the curtained-off area of her bed, the eagerness in her eyes is enough to break his heart again.

Just when he thought its pieces were fully fragmented.

"All finished, sweetheart," the nurse is saying, smiling at Sarah. A stout brunette in pale pink scrubs printed with yellow teddy bears, she has a reassuring presence; her patient doesn't answer, and she doesn't seem offended.

"Can I go home now?" Sarah asks Derek as soon as the nurse leaves.

There: another piece.

"Not yet," he says quietly. "Actually, they're going to check you into a room, and you're going to sleep here tonight."

"Why? It's just a broken wrist." She raises her pink cast as if showing him proof. "Joy broke her arm in third grade on traveling team and she didn't have to sleep in the hospital."

At her twin sister's name, they both pause. Derek watches as his niece's lower lip trembles, her pale face seeming to sag.

"Sarah – "

"Quarter-finals start tomorrow night," she says, staring straight ahead. "At camp. Joy's playing Vale Hamlin in the first match and she really needs to be there."

"Sarah," he tries again.

"Will we be home by then? It starts at six."

"Sarah."

"No, six- _thirty_ , but we need to be there at six. We need to be there at six, so we have to get out of here tomorrow in time to change and stuff, and we can't be late 'cause they get mad if the other side has to wait and sometimes they get penalty points and we have to run laps. Joy hates running extra laps."

Her voice trails off, her face crumples, and then without further warning she's crying, her narrow shoulders shaking.

"Okay. Shh, it's okay." Derek moves the limited space between them and crouches down a little so he can ease his niece carefully against him, letting her cry into the fabric of his shirt. Mindful of her injuries, he strokes her messy dark hair, waiting for her to calm down and trying to walk the line between letting her express her very understandable grief and not letting her exacerbate her injuries.

When she's quieted, the ache in his own back speaking to his awkward position, he gently moves her far enough back that she can hear him, and he can see her face. Her eyes look huge in her pale face, accentuated by the bruising along her forehead and her temple.

"We're going to take it one step at a time, okay?" He keeps his tone as soothing as he can.

"Okay," she says in a small voice.

"So for tonight, you're staying in the hospital, and so is Joy. That's tonight. We'll figure out tomorrow, tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay," she whispers again.

He pulls a few pink tissues from the flowered box on the table and carefully wipes the tears from her face. She's not so much bigger from the girl who cried at her skinned knees on a bench in Central Park.

There's movement at the closed curtains and they both look toward the hanging fabric.

"They want to move you into your room now," he says tentatively, hoping it doesn't set her off again. "You'll be a little more comfortable there. You'll get a real door," he adds.

"Okay." She pauses. "Can you come too?"

He smiles shakily at her. "First I need to go tell your parents that you're being admitted and make sure they know where to find you."

"Okay," she says again.

There are still a few tears in his niece's eyes; carefully, Derek rests his hand on the shoulder of her uninjured arm. It feels bony and small under his palm.

"A lot of people want to see you, Sarah. I'll send someone else to meet you in your room. Maybe Carly."

"Carly's here?"

Derek nods.

"Tell her she can go see Joy first," Sarah says. "If she wants."

He leans in and kisses her forehead to forestall the feeling of heat behind his own eyes. "Hang in there," he says, and she nods.

And then there's a nurse at her side, fussing maternally over her and helping her settle back while an orderly prepares to move her.

Derek looks back just once from the doorway of the CCU and throught he open curtains he can see his niece still watching him amidst the flurry of activity around her bed, the fingers of her good hand playing with the edge of the pink cast covering her broken wrist.

…

"Sarah's okay," Derek assures his sister. "They're admitting her. I think she'd like company, if …"

"I'll go," Carly says immediately, and Derek lets her know where to find her cousin before turning back to Nancy. She asks for details, and he does his best.

"I need to see her," Nancy says, her voice shaking. "I just – not yet."

She doesn't elaborate; she doesn't need to. Derek has only to imagine what it would be like to be Nancy, to have to look into Sarah's face – so much like Joy's – and either lie about how serious her twin's injuries are or have to tell her about Joy's uncertain future.

"Derek." Nancy is touching his arm, her fingers cold and tense. "Did Sarah say anything to you about why they were in the car, about what – "

Derek shakes his head. "She says she doesn't remember," he says carefully.

Nancy draws a shuddering breath.

"Thank you for doing that," she says shakily.

"Of course." He touches her shoulder; Nancy is as tall as he is in flat shoes but he has much the same sensation he did when he was touching Sarah in the same way. She seems … small, brittle. Her personality has always been imposing, to say the least, but Nancy is sharp in more than her wording and her judgment. Her boniness makes her seem fragile; her face is pale enough to be grey and if there is something Derek could say to ease the pain of waiting to find out if her daughter survives brain surgery – he has no idea what it is.

So he says nothing, squeezing her shoulder in lieu of platitudes, and then with a shade of guilt he returns to Meredith's side, to his healthy and whole daughter, while Nancy resumes her pacing and Steve watches her from his post against the wall.

And then, with nothing to do but wait … they wait.

They keep waiting.

…

"Hey," Meredith says softly when he approaches. She holds out a hand and he takes it, sinking down next to her.

"Sarah's okay," he says, keeping his voice low.

"That's good." She squeezes his hand. "That's really good."

Zola is sleeping, deeply and somewhat noisily, her head resting heavily on her mother's shoulder. She watches as he reaches a hand out automatically to rub their daughter's warm back. She's their little hot water bottle, even warmer in sleep; Meredith's shirt is damp with perspiration where Zola is attached to her, despite the air conditioning. She can feel stray hairs curling at her neck, her temples.

"I can take her," Derek offers, his free hand brushing at the hair stuck to her neck but then Nancy is calling his name. Meredith assures him it's fine, turning her attention back to Zola, who has stirred a little at the motion on the noisy couch.

Meredith is still moving her hand in circles on her daughter's back, recalling how she used to feel walking a much smaller Zola up and down the pathways and confines of the house, lulling her rhythmically to sleep and then – once her breathing deepened and evened out – afraid to cease the movement that soothed her. She'd keep walking after the baby slept, keep rubbing her back even after she'd stopped walking, some part of her afraid that without the contact the peace of sleep would be shattered.

She sees Liz is watching her now from the adjacent couch.

"I remember that feeling," her sister-in-law says quietly, nodding toward Zola. "It's hard to believe how long ago it was, but … I remember it." Her tone is thoughtful. "Really, it doesn't matter how old they get. They fall asleep … and they're babies again."

Liz gestures toward the couch on the other side of the wall, where Chloe is sleeping on her folded arms, legs drawn up under her. Next to her, close enough that they seem to be propping each other up, Caitlin sits with her eyes half open, chin propped in her hand.

And on a third couch, Carolyn is seated next to Kathleen, whose son is dozing against her shoulder. Her sister-in-law looks exhausted.

"The twins … they were the babies in the family for a long time, until Zola," Liz adds. She glances at the open spot next to Meredith with a question in her eyes; Meredith nods.

"So, you've had quite a visit to New York," Liz says ruefully, once she's eased herself with care onto the squeaky surface of the couch.

Meredith isn't sure what to say, so she waits.

"I don't know if you know this. But there were so many times we – wanted to spend more time with you, get to know you. Every picture Derek sent, every time … but it's hard. We're all here, and you're there. And we missed him, but we understood that Derek wanted a fresh start. That he needed one."

Meredith just nods, listening.

"I'm glad we don't have to miss any more time, with any of you. I just didn't think it would be so – eventful."

With that, Liz glances at Zola. "Still sleeping?" she asks fondly, and Meredith nods.

She's not the only one, Liz's daughters fading in and out of sleep and Kathleen's children doing the same.

It's late, and yet –

"I'm not tired," Kathleen's daughter Lucy is protesting as the siblings propose, again, sending the teenagers home.

"Me neither." Her brother is halfway through a yawn when he says it, hair askew from sleep, which doesn't really lend a lot of credence.

Kathleen shakes her head. "It's late. You need to sleep – in a bed," she adds to her son. "You don't need to be here."

"But I don't want to go back to Connecticut," Lucy protests. "Not when …." She stops talking, glancing around the room, seeming to be reconsidering her words. Meredith imagines they were something like, _when we're not sure if Joy's going to make it._

"Dad's coming to get you," Kathleen says. Her voice is filled with conviction.

At least the first time.

By the time Kathleen's husband arrives – his eyes shadowed, explaining that he was in surgery, giving both their present children what look like extra hard hugs and saving one for his wife – the idea of Lucy and Evan leaving seems to have faded out. Instead, the family waiting room stays a magnet, attracting Shepherds who float in and out, to bathrooms and vending machines, bringing water and pretzels like tribute and waiting.

Just waiting, always waiting.

…

On his return, Derek sees the waiting room with a fisheye lens, automatically, bulging at the sides with scattered family members: some sit in clumps, exchanging anxious looks, and some alone. Several of the teenagers are sleeping, some are pacing. He's drawn first and immediately to his wife, who is sitting on one of the blue pleather couches with her body angled toward Liz, Zola sleeping in her arms.

"Hi." Meredith tilts her head up and he kisses her, stroking Zola's head as he does so. "Is everything – "

"They're still working on her. Nancy wanted me to talk to one of the surgeons."

"Oh." Meredith doesn't say anything else, and neither does Derek – but he can tell from her expression she knows it wasn't a pleasant conversation.

Derek glances at Liz, then sits carefully next to his wife, the stiff material of the couch issuing a resentful squeak as his weight displaces it. His joints feel equally stiff.

Hospital waiting rooms are as aging as they are alien.

For a moment, he just listens to his sleeping daughter's breaths. His whole, healthy daughter, unfractured skull fitting perfectly against her mother as she slumbers.

Resting one hand on Meredith's shoulder, he massages the tight muscles gently, feeling her relax a little under his palm.

Liz busies herself, tactfully, checking on a sleeping Chloe. Kathleen's husband is here now, he notes, and he can tell from the various postures that his intent was to wrangle the teenagers who've been occupying the waiting room with them.

"Mer," Derek begins, his voice soft. She turns a little to see him and he can see in her eyes that she knows what he's going to say. She's easy to read or he is, or they have just read each other so much and so often at this point that it's automatic.

"I'm staying," she says quietly.

"You should sleep." He tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "You need to sleep. You and Zola."

"Zola's already sleeping."

"On you, not in bed. And you need sleep too."

"Derek." Meredith shakes her head.

"Please." He hears his voice shake a little, which could either persuade or dissuade her, come to think of it, but – "

"Derek." Her tone is quiet but firm. "I know you want to protect me. I know you want to protect … him," she adds, resting a hand on her belly. Automatically, his hand covers hers. It feels small under his, but strong. "But I need to be with you right now. We both do. And … you're staying here."

"I can come back with you," he says uncertainly, his voice trailing off.

Her hand turns underneath his so their fingers fold together. "You're not going to leave."

She's right, of course she's right.

"You're staying here," Meredith repeats gently, "and so am I. So are we."

He's not sure what to say.

Something, perhaps, about how these were supposed to be two simple weeks to help his mother through surgery, to visit his sisters and calm their clamoring to meet Zola, re-establish tentative bonds and then return to their regular lives.

Meredith never signed on for the looming darkness of his nephew's drug addiction, for the ever-shifting tragedy of Mark and Addison, for caring for the Sloans' sad little daughter. It's not fair. It's too much to ask.

"We're married, Derek," she reminds him softly. In the four walls of the waiting room, with its clumps of relatives, some half-asleep, they've managed something like privacy here on the noisy vinyl couch. "You're my family," she says, "and I'm yours."

"I know that." He's holding her hand within both of his, gently manipulating her fingers, somewhere between massage, echoes of the scrub room, and memorizing the shape of her. "Don't you know I know that?"

"I do. I know." She turns her hand so she's somehow grasping both of his larger ones in her sole smaller one, surprising him – as she has before, even though he knows it too.

For a moment, a brief flash of a second, he is reminded of how the same woman can be so deeply familiar and so recurrently surprising, all at once. He swallows, hard.

"Mer – "

"And your family is my family. Joy … is my niece too," she says softly.

It takes effort to raise his eyes to meet hers, but then he can't look away from her. Her gaze is magnetic; he wants to apologize but something in its muted green color is preventing the words.

Through it all, Zola sleeps unaffected, her cheek pillowed on Meredith's lap, one pudgy little cemented around her mother's other hand.

The hand in Derek's is strong – reassuring. She doesn't stop looking at him.

Derek doesn't say, _you didn't sign on for this._

Meredith doesn't say, _I signed on for you._

They both stay.

And together, a family of four at the center of extended prongs of Shepherds, they wait.

…

In the end it's decided out of their hands, in the sea of sisters, though it's their temporary home they're pleased to be able to offer. The apartment where they've been staying is the closest sleeping structure to the hospital, and it's empty – with fresh sheets and multiple beds and everything the family could need. The teenagers will go there for something resembling sleep, the adults can rotate. Rick, Kathleen's husband, volunteers to go first; with Kathleen and Liz supervising Nancy closely, it makes the most sense.

Their mother refuses to accompany the apartment-bound Shepherds at first, though, not wanting to leave the hospital.

"Mom." Kathleen leads the traditional exchange of glances among the siblings, a sort of visual version of hot potato where no one wants to be the first to utter the words _surgery_ and _you just had_ too close together.

"Nancy will worry about you more if you're here," Liz finally tells their mother, her tone sufficiently between firm and deferential to convince her, her words well chosen. _Nancy has enough to worry about right now_ , she doesn't say. But it seems to have been heard.

"Fine," their mother says. She raises her eyebrows at her assembled children. "You'll tell me anything that happens. Call or – I have email, you know. I'm not an old woman."

"We know." Liz rests a hand on her shoulder.

…

Meredith gets the sense that Liz is staying for Nancy and Kathleen is staying for Liz; after two weeks – two intense weeks – she thinks perhaps the Shepherd siblings' language: unspoken, unshared, is starting to move from a dull roar to parsable words. It's been an immersion course, these sticky, urban August days, the parts of her brain usually attuned to her patients, to the delicacy of her procedures, attuned instead to the nuances of the family she's discovering piece by piece.

Slowly, she strokes the warm shape of Zola's little head where she's curled sleeping against her, keeping her pinned to the cracked blue vinyl couch that's seeming to absorb the thin fabric of her shirt. The air conditioning is strong in the room, cold, and yet everything still feels somewhat gluey – gummy – from humidity.

When she glances up, she sees her mother-in-law is watching her. She doesn't say anything, but her gaze confirms she's no stranger to being pinned down by a sleeping child.

"Zola should come with us," Carolyn says gently, after a moment. "Back to the apartment. It's familiar for her, now. And she can sleep in a bed, get some rest, and let you stand up and stretch your legs." She pauses. "I'd say you should come too, Meredith, but. Well." She doesn't finish the sentence, just raises a beckoning eyebrow.

Meredith's hand is resting on the warm weight of her daughter in her lap. Send Zola with her grandmother, her cousins? Away from both her parents?

Carolyn is still waiting for an answer.

Derek is in conversation with Nancy across the room, so Meredith is on her own here. Okay. She draws a breath.

"Oh … that's … I don't want to impose on you."

"We're going too. We can watch her if Grammy's tired, Aunt Meredith," Chloe says, shaking her head when her sister glares. "What? She has to sleep," she adds defensively.

But the phrase _Aunt Meredith_ – and the casual way the teenager uses it – makes her cheeks flush. The easy grace with which Derek's family have accepted Zola on this trip … it extends to her, and she's still learning how to accept the things for herself she finds it easy to accept on behalf of her daughter.

She thinks of Zola's immediate draw to the warmth and grandmotherly affection of Carolyn Shepherd and how she's delighted in the affectionate welcome from her teenaged cousins.

This, she can accept. For both of them.

"Thank you," she says, her throat feeling thick. "If you're – um, if you're sure."

"We're sure, and we're both first aid trained," Caitlin says, her tone the gently assuring one of an untested young adult – but competent enough. "Chloe and I were counselors together at Camp Kiawah."

"And Cait can do pediatric CPR," Chloe adds, then glances at her sister, a little nervously. "Not that we'll need to."

"I don't know how to do any of that stuff," Evan says ruefully. Kathleen's son has shaggy dark hair that keeps falling into his eyes and Meredith gets such a clear picture of a teenaged Derek from that little tic of brushing it away so he can see – it pierces her heart for the boy she never knew, so vulnerable in imagined memory. "But I have two sisters and a lot of girl cousins so I'm pretty good at tea parties."

"He is," Lucy confirms. "Lily and Emma used to dress him up and everything. You looked good in a tiara, Ev," she adds, her mouth curling in a half smile – raw and stretched like these hours of grief have made her forget the muscles required for mirth.

Meredith brushes at her eyes, willing herself not to cry. With all the tragedy surrounding them – tonight, the previous days – she's not going to cry now at the simple goodness of these children who are now her family.

"Meredith … I know we haven't spent much time together," Rick says – there's something open in his demeanor, friendly, that Meredith appreciates. He's clearly the donor of his children's round faces; Lucy even has the same cleft in her chin that he does. She's at his side now, leaning against him. "And Zola doesn't know me very well. But I do have four children." He gives Lucy a little squeeze as he says this. "And I have ten nieces and nephews on Kathy's side so altogether I've supervised a lot of little Shepherds. Including my share of overnight calls."

Evan is standing on his father's other side; he brushes his bangs away from his blue eyes and it's that one gesture that seals, finally, Meredith's decision. By the time Derek walks over to them, he's hearing the plan rather than approving it, and if he has doubts she can't see them. He's the one to lift their slumbering daughter – her small soft body heavy in sleep as always – and pass her to Caitlin, who shifts her into her arms like a seasoned pro.

Then all that's left is for Meredith and Derek alert the building and give Rick and the older girls instructions, and then they're leaving, a series of dark heads together with Chloe's hand tucked protectively through the crook of Carolyn's elbow and a sleeping Zola on Caitlin's hip.

Derek drapes an arm around her shoulder and she turns, wrapping both arms around his waist. If she wasn't already confident in her decision, she is now. Zola, snug in the arms of loving cousins, a doting grandmother, and an experienced uncle, fast asleep, is okay. She's more than okay.

"Thank you," he whispers against her hair.

There is just one of her. She is one person. There is one of her, and more than one person she loves. More than one person for whom her heart beats. It beats quite literally for her unborn son, supplying the blood and nutrients he needs to grow. It beats quite surely for her daughter, her sweet and loving daughter, her silly, chatty, funny daughter who has been hers from the moment she saw her in Derek's arms, saw the way his eyes lit up at the prospect of fatherhood.

And Derek. Her heart beats – has always beaten – for her husband, for those perfect moments they are flush against each other with hearts beating in tandem.

Her Derek, the Derek she met and the Derek she married, arrived in Seattle alone. He was a man without a history, those early days that bled into weeks and then months. And as the threads of his past knit together slowly, after that – piece by painful piece, his solitary nature made sense.

Her Derek is also the sum of his parts, the fourth of five children, the only son of his mother and the bearer of his late father's name. He is uncle to fourteen. He is a part of the woods where they have built their home but this is the coast that fed him in his early years and grew him into the man who would be ready to meet her almost forty years later.

She has never doubted that she has the best of him, but the part of her that craved more, _more_ , from that first moment of contact – more of his touch, more of his face, more of his voice – has ached sometimes slightly and occasionally intensely for the rest of him.

"You don't have to thank me."

He holds her more tightly, his touch telling her what he needs. She presses herself close, letting him draw comfort from her nearness, and when their son responds to her still body by kicking, she takes her husband's hand and presses his palm to the spot where their child is reminding them of his life.

 _I'm here_ , he seems to be saying. Alive, and here.

"I'm here," Meredith echoes his unspoken words, quietly enough that the only person who can hear them is Derek.

…

The next update, the final update, is for Joy.

"We were able to stop the bleed."

 _They were able to stop the bleed._

The surgeon holding his wrinkled cap, every exhausted inch of him feels familiar even though she's never seen him before.

She can feel every side of this painful equation: his relief that he doesn't have to deliver bad news, the stoop in his shoulder suggesting he has his own daughter – maybe a son – and that a critically injured twelve-year-old can't pass through his OR without leaving a stamp, even when he's able to stop a potentially fatal complication. And she feels the combined weight of the Shepherds, of Derek's family that is hers too. Of their grief that is relief that is still fear, the rush that follows adrenaline when nothing seems real. It's slow motion and fast motion all at once.

Everything seems to echo: the sighs of relief in the room, the sound of the surgeon clearing his throat, the way Nancy's knees and shake and then give until Steve seems to be the only thing holding her up.

"She hasn't regained consciousness."

 _She hasn't regained consciousness._

"We're not expecting her to, not yet," he continues, with an apologetic tone in his voice. "But with the immediate danger behind her, we can assess the rest of the damage to her brain."

 _The rest of the damage._

That echo, again.

He leaves, assuring them Derek and Amy can both review the scans when they're complete.

And they're alone again. Just family.

Derek is still holding her hand so tightly she might lose sensation.

Across the room a white-faced Nancy looks about to faint, locked in her husband's embrace. Liz is wiping tears from her eyes, Kathleen patting her back.

Amy stands alone against the wall, watching.

…

"He's taking it hard, huh?" Amy indicates Derek with a jerk of her head.

Meredith glances at Amy, and then back at her husband, who is still focusing on the scans, head tilted slightly with concentration.

The three of them take up a small viewing room provided by the sympathetic radiologist, the lightbox illuminating image after image.

Derek looked. Then Amy looked. Then they looked together.

And now Derek is looking again.

His back is to her, but the set of his shoulders tells her anything she didn't already know.

"It's bad," Amy says quietly. Her tone is blunt; her posture almost insolent, but a muscle jumps under one of her eyes when Meredith turns to study her face. Her tells for pain may be under the surface – quite literally – but there's no question it's affecting her too.

Meredith just nods. "Right. But do you think there's – "

"No." Amy looks at Derek, who is still immersed in the scans, and then back to Meredith. "They stopped the bleed, so she's alive. Technically. Great."

 _Technically._

The word is chilling, coming from Amy. And absorbed by Meredith, who knows what she means.

"The thing is, we have to wait." Amy points toward one of the scans. "Look. You can't see it yet, but … there's shear. I'm almost certain of it. From the shape of the bleed, from the pattern strike."

She doesn't have to say anything else. Meredith is familiar with the waiting process Amy references, with the changes to the brain over the hours following a head trauma. Hours, and days. There are few good options, but Amy's suggestion that the injury can only diffuse over the next few hours, the damage spreading …

Internally, Meredith shudders.

And the longer Joy stays unconscious, machines breathing for her, the longer they'll have to wait.

"Nancy doesn't like waiting," Amy continues, her voice quiet. She's raised a hand to the back of her neck, rubbing what must be tense muscles there. Meredith is reminded that Amy is the only one of the Shepherd siblings without a partner, and something about the way she's massaging her own neck makes her feel suddenly lonely on her behalf.

"She doesn't like waiting. She likes action and … and yelling at people. And she can't yell at me even though I'm usually her favorite choice because I think she's got it in her head that I can do something. That Derek can do something. That's why we're here."

Meredith considers the possibilities. Her own training in brain injuries – particularly the type of diffusion Amy seems to think is occurring, each one different, few of them with anything resembling a happy ending.

She moves a little closer to Amy, even though Derek doesn't seem to have heard his name. She considers Amy's fellowship, her daring nature.

"Could you?" she asks Amy. "Do something, I mean."

"No," Amy says simply. "Even if I could – throw every ethical rule to the curb and operate on my own niece – no. If what's happening is what I think is happening – then there's nothing to do. I did a peds neuro fellowship, Meredith, and I'm good, okay? Yeah, I lost a little time, with the drugs and the rehab and whatever, but I know I'm good. There's good, and there's miracle, and even Derek doesn't walk on water."

Meredith just nods.

"I don't know what Nancy's going to do." Amy's voice is dark; she rolls her tense shoulders now, cracks her neck. Meredith winces a little at the sound. "She's scared, and Nancy doesn't do scared. Not well, anyway. She does … bitchy. And Steve's the only one she listens to and– I don't know."

Before Meredith can respond, Amy is squaring her shoulders. She lifts her chin, seeming a little taller. "We need to do something," she says.

Meredith is confused. "But you just said – "

"Joy is going to die," Amy says. Her voice is simple, blunt, the voice of a surgeon and Meredith listens with the ears of one instead of shuddering, the way an aunt would, at the potential tragedy. "But if she dies, and we don't do anything at all, if we don't at least try to help her – "

" _Amy!_ " Derek's sharp tone startles both women. Meredith had almost forgotten her husband was in the room, so deeply focused has he been on the scans. Now he's turned to face both of them, eyes glittering with anger fixed on Amy.

"What?" Amy's tone is defensive, a cornered little sister, and Meredith finds herself wincing, slightly, on her behalf. "Derek, we have to – "

"No. Just – stop talking," Derek cuts her off, coldly. "It's enough."

An expression of hurt crosses Amy's face and without another word, she leaves the viewing room, closing the door behind her.

When Meredith turns back to Derek his expression is so bleak she can't do anything except cross the room to his side and then he's holding her tightly enough to take her breath away.

…

"Are you here to apologize for Derek?"

"No," Meredith says. "Derek can speak for himself." She glances around the small room – some sort of combination caucus room and waiting room, where she found her sister-in-law once a calmer Derek returned to the family room to talk to Nancy.

"Then why are you here?"

"I wanted to check on you," Meredith says. "I wanted to see if you were okay."

Amy doesn't respond for a moment. "Because I'm the sad single Shepherd?" she asks finally.

"No. Because you're my sister-in-law," Meredith says quietly. "And you're Zola's aunt, and Derek's sister."

"Okay." Amy nods slowly, apparently accepting this.

" _Okay_ , you're okay? Or _okay_ , I can check on you?"

"The second one." Amy nods toward the paper cup in her hand. "Is that for me?"

Meredith hands it over and watches as Amy takes a long sip, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. There's something in her expression suggesting she hasn't been sulking, here in the caucus room, and there's a folded piece of paper next to her right elbow.

"Have you heard anything about Jesse?" Meredith asks, realizing her guess was right when the hand holding the coffee cup shakes noticeably.

"I saw him," Amy says.

"How is he?"

"How is he," Amy repeats. "How is Jesse. His face is smashed up, but you knew that. Can't really talk, which doesn't seem to upset the lawyer too much."

She takes a sip of coffee, seeming to fortify herself.

"So … in the movies this would be a wake-up call," Amy continues grimly. "In the movies it would be unusual, too, but I've been to a lot of meetings and I've heard a lot of stories and it's not unusual. It's not special. It sucks, but it's not unusual. So in real life, well … it could wake him up, sure – or it could push him over the edge." Amy pauses. "Like the _edge_ edge. The dark place. The one you don't come back from."

Meredith watches her without speaking.

"Joy could die," Amy continues. Her tone is matter-of-fact, even blunt. "In the next twenty-four hours. And maybe that's the best option, because a persistent vegetative state … at her age …."

Amy stops talking.

"It could kill Jesse too," she says.

With that, she leans back against the wall as if the prediction has taken a toll on her. Maybe it has.

But there's something in the slope of her shoulders suggesting that she wants to talk. That she wants to talk anyway, and Meredith follows her instinct.

"Could you have survived?" Meredith asks quietly.

"Could I have survived? Oh, you mean if Vivian …." Amy glances at her, quiet for a long moment before she resumes speaking. "You know the story, I assume?"

Meredith nods.

"If Viv had died … ." Amy stops talking. "I've thought about it before. Of course I have. I don't know, to be honest, Meredith. Maybe a better person would know, but I just – I don't."

"When you found out she was in the hospital …." Meredith pushes it, troubled by the phrase _a better person_.

"I went on a bender," Amy says. Her tone is neutral.

Meredith nods; Derek told her as much.

For long moments, in the small room, they just breathe. Meredith waits for her sister-in-law to speak, not daring her – it's not a game of chicken so much as an inevitability.

"You want the truth?" Amy asks finally.

A loaded question, if Meredith has ever heard one.

"Yes, I do."

"It's ugly," Amy warns her.

"The truth usually is," Meredith says.

Amy opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her blue eyes are dark with guilt. "Okay, here goes: if Viv had died, that day – and it was my fault – I don't know if Mark and Addison could have forgiven me. The thing is, if they didn't forgive me, I think that might have killed me. But if they _did_ forgive me? … that, I know, would have killed me."

Meredith absorbs this.

"They're the only ones who stood by me, the worst times, when they probably shouldn't have. My mom, she still talked to me, she visited me in rehab. She's a good mom, but Mark and Addie, they … kept coming back. They get it."

Amy is quiet for a moment. "They get _me_ ," she continues finally, "because those two, they may not be drug addicts … but they do know what it is to hate themselves."

There's a pause where she sips coffee and then she looks at Meredith; the smirk playing around her lips could be troubling except that it highlights her facial resemblance to Derek and Meredith is coming to know her well enough to understand what it means.

Amy is looking back at her now. "Is this too much for you?" she asks.

"No, it's not," Meredith says truthfully.

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Amy studies her face for a moment. "You know something, Meredith … I think you're good for Derek."

"Thank you," Meredith says drily. "I was hoping we could get your blessing."

For a moment Amy is silent and then she laughs, the sound short and harsh in the small space.

Then her phone is vibrating on her hip and she's covering it like a spurting wound, like the flat of her palm can stanch the flow of news it's bound to be bringing before they have to learn the _who_ and the _what_.

* * *

 _To be continued_ , of course.

... in which my thoughts on the characters are preempted by an unfortunately necessary public service announcement.

 **PSA**

 **Guys. I am putting on my real talk hat here for a minute. Maybe it's the humidity, or maybe it's that 50 chapters in my patience is wearing a little thinner. I said I love hearing from you and I do. But.** When I read reviews that are like "great 50 chapter story you have entertained me with for free but I am finding it hard to really get into the plot without knowing whether Zola prefers Haribo gummy bears or some American ripoff brand" ... you know ... it kind of makes me want to throw (Haribo) candy at the screen and take down the whole thing. It definitely makes me think twice about a sequel, because this tiresome issue seems to affect just this story in particular. I'm not trying to pick on anyone, but ... I'm going to suggest as a rule for everyone (including me) that you read over whatever you plan to post and see if you really want to post it. Before you post it. I know I do, which is why I have typed and erased iterations of this message many times before. For mine and all the stories you read and review, try to remember how much work goes into on our end for the purpose of your enjoyment. Try to remember that _before_ you post. I know I always keep that in mind when I'm reviewing. **Something to think about. Okay? Hashtag-this-has-been-a-public-service-announcement.**

Oh, last thing: this story is 51 chapters long. Look, I promise not to be offended if it's taken you 51 chapters to realize it's not your cup of tea (though I might if you feel the need to share that with me, repeatedly, unconstructively, and needlessly), but the archives are full to bursting with other stories. Please feel free to find something that is more up your alley, because it's very unlikely the wrap-up of this story will suddenly turn into whatever it is you've been seeking.

 **/PSA**

For those of you who are enjoying this story, I'm glad, because I'm enjoying it too. I think you are going to like where it's going, and I'm glad you're along for the ride - what came before, and what's left of it now. And for all of you spectacular netizens who have been gracious and encouraging, keep rocking. Thanks.


	52. human

**A/N: I'm humbled by all the comments you left on the last chapter. Thank you so much. This story is the longest thing I've ever written, and anyone who reads my stuff knows that's saying a lot. I'm attached to the characters and the storyline, and I'm thrilled to hear from you that you have enjoyed the journey and are on board for the rest of it. To those of you who read and comment every chapter: you're amazing. To the new folks I've just heard from for the first time: thank you so much for your words. They mean a lot.**

 **This chapter is very, _very_ long. I flirted with making it two chapters, but I really needed all of this together in one chapter. Life is a little rough for the Shepherds right now, so I hesitate to say I hope you enjoy this chapter. But I hope you do.**

* * *

 _human  
..._

* * *

"I already said I don't want to see him," Nancy repeats stubbornly.

"Nance." Steve is holding her hand. "He's asking for you."

"I don't care."

Kathleen intercedes, a hand on her sister's arm. "It's okay to feel conflicted," she says gently.

"Don't shrink me, Kathy," Nancy orders, her voice tight. "Not tonight."

Slowly, Kathleen nods. She looks up, catching Derek's eye. He wonders if his expression looks as helpless as he feels.

He glances around at the smaller crowd of Shepherds – it's just Liz, Kathleen, and Derek with Nancy and Steve now. The fluorescent lights are unforgiving when it comes to their collective age, the cold air pumping ceaselessly through the vents leaves a chill that feels somehow wet and dry all at once. It's the opposite of a breeze. It tastes of electricity, of things that aren't alive.

Amy is off somewhere sulking, he's fairly certain, and Meredith left to try to appease her with coffee and the kind of patience he finds it difficult to summon with his younger sister. Then again, his wife is new to the members of his extended family. Unlike the rest of them, she hasn't had her patience worn thin by years of Amy's irresponsibility, her risky and alienating and increasingly dangerous behaviors.

He's prided himself on not holding onto anger, though. Not like Nancy, who turned cold to Amy when the truth about her prescription pads emerged. Who has barely been able to contain her contempt during their forced interactions as a result of their mother's surgery.

And again, now, as a result of her children's accident.

 _My sister too_ , that's what Nancy said about reviewing Joy's scans, and Amy squeezed her hand. It was necessity more than forgiveness, perhaps. But it could have been the start of something – a softening, maybe.

Soft isn't a word he normally associates with Nancy.

"Don't ask me again," Nancy snaps now, pulling her hand out of Steve's to return to stalking anxious circles around the family waiting room.

One step softer, two steps back.

...

It's warm and close now in the little viewing room that feels much like a confessional, Amy leaning against the wall and studying her unblinking phone.

Meredith just watches her for a moment, not wanting to push her too much.

"Steve thinks he can get Nancy to see Jesse," Amy says finally. She holds the phone aloft for a moment, high enough that it looks less like offering evidence and more like making a toast. "He thinks I can help." She pauses, then makes a soft sound that's somewhat like a snort. "Because Nancy _loves_ when I get involved in her stuff."

"She wanted you to look at Joy's scans," Meredith says.

"That's because I'm a neurosurgeon."

"And she let you weigh in on Jesse's rehab."

"That's because I'm an addict neurosurgeon," Amy says. She shoves a hand through her hair. It's a gesture of frustration that reminds Meredith, in the moment, of her husband. Amy's hair may be far longer and straighter but the gesture, the positioning of her hand and the message it conveys, feels very familiar.

"You can't get Nancy to do things. Nancy never does anything she doesn't want to do," Amy announces after a moment. "Somehow I don't think she's about to change after forty-whatever years."

"You don't think she wants to see Jesse?"

Amy cocks her head. "Ask me a different question," she says.

"Okay." Meredith thinks for a moment. "You don't think she can forgive Jesse?" she asks after a moment.

Amy lifts her chin with the indication of a pronouncement; apparently, that's either the question she was seeking or one she's willing to answer, at any rate. "I don't actually know." Amy stretches her fingers, studying the web of them for a moment, then looks up at Meredith. "Forgiveness isn't exactly Nancy's strong suit. She still hasn't forgiven me for making it through my surgical internship after she quit surgery, not to mention all the various and assorted drug-related stuff she'd be more than happy to list for you, I'm sure. Oh, and don't even get me started on microwaving her Barbies."

Meredith listens without saying anything.

Amy takes a sip of coffee, then makes a face. Maybe it's getting cold. "You think just because she's Jess's mother, she'll forgive him?" she asks.

"Your mother forgave you," Meredith points out.

"She did. But I didn't kill anyone." Amy takes another sip of coffee; apparently she's prepared for the cold now, because she doesn't flinch. "I could have, though," she admits.

"But you didn't," Meredith says. Jesse hasn't either ... not yet, anyway; she leaves that unsaid.

"But I didn't. And even though I didn't … it still took time. You know? It wasn't, like, instantaneous forgiveness. I did things. Crashed Derek's car, stole Nancy's prescription pads, my mom had to … ." Her voice trails off. "I did things," she repeats.

Meredith is quiet for a moment, watching her.

"I could have killed Viv," Amy says quietly. "She could have died that day. Easily, I – saw the records, you know? Later. Just a little more concentration and that would have been enough."

"But she didn't."

"But she didn't," Amy echoes. She looks up at the ceiling for a moment. It feels close, low. "She didn't die. She lived and – now Addison is alive. Even that freakin' bionic baby is still alive." Amy makes a sound rather like a mirthless laugh. "You know what that means, don't you?"

Meredith shakes her head.

"It means Mark got his happy ending and now it's Nancy's kids on the chopping block." Amy pauses, looking at Meredith. "You're supposed to say this isn't how it works."

"Excuse me?"

"You know: _that's not how this works, that's not how any of this works_."

Amy is looking at her.

Like she has answers.

"I don't know how it works," Meredith says honestly.

Amy seems taken aback, her blue eyes widening. "You don't?"

"No. I don't."

Is she supposed to? By virtue of marrying Amy's older brother, should she have taken on some wiser role? She is, if she recalls correctly, younger than Amy – just by a year or two, she's fairly certain.

She has no answers.

She's coming to realize that Amy is used to sisters who have answers.

She's not that.

Amy studies her, silently, when she suggests this.

"I guess I'm used to being the youngest," Amy says.

"Actually … I'm younger."

Amy looks genuinely surprised now. "You are?"

Meredith nods, lifting an eyebrow at Amy's expression. "I guess I need to moisturize more?"

"No, it's not that. Just – "

"Just you've always been the youngest," Meredith supplies.

"Yeah. You know, sisters …. ." Her voice trails off. "You're not an only child, are you."

"It depends on the metric," Meredith says.

Amy blinks. "You're gonna give me more than that, right?"

"I … had a sister," Meredith says after a moment. "A younger sister. She died."

"Oh." Amy looks down for a moment, then back up at her. "Well, that sucks."

Meredith finds herself starting to smile. "Yeah. It did suck."

"Were you – young?"

Meredith shakes her head. "I didn't know her when I was young, actually. She's my half sister. My father … left, when I was kid, had a new family."

"Oh," Amy says again.

"My sister died in a plane crash … on a plane that I should have been on," Meredith continues.

" _Oh._ " Amy's eyes widen.

"So … that happened. Oh, and I have another sister. Well. She's really the sister who died's … sister. She doesn't want anything to do with me. She has kids, you know, I thought maybe … but no. Not interested. She blames me, maybe, which – I don't know, maybe she's not so off base."

Amy is listening silently.

"The whole should-have-been-on-the-plane thing." Meredith stops talking. "Anyway, that's it," Meredith says. "That's the whole sister story. Unless there's some other sister hiding in the woodwork … and I'm pretty sure there's not … then I'm back to zero. Sister-free."

"Except for us."

"Hm?"

"Us," Amy repeats. "Me, Lizzie, Kath … Nancy too, but don't turn your back 'cause she's usually holding a knife." She pauses. "I should probably be nicer about Nancy. Tonight, I should be nicer. The point is … us. You're sister free, except for us."

"Okay." Meredith finds her hand resting on her belly. "Except for … you. All of you."

"I'm sorry about your sister," Amy says quietly. "Sisters, I mean."

"Thanks."

"I didn't know," Amy offers.

"Why would you?"

"Yeah, that's fair. Wow." Amy looks almost … impressed? "I guess still waters really do run deep," she says after a moment.

"Still waters." Meredith raises her eyebrows. "Are my waters still?"

"I barely know your waters. Give me some time." Amy smiles, tentatively, but the word _time_ stings a little.

 _Time._

Midnight is long gone now.

Which means that their time in New York has run out.

Except that their time in New York _can't_ run out, not yet.

Here, in the hospital, they are living on borrowed time – which is what patients do, patients and their families. They do the unthinkable: count out the _time_ left for people they love. People who were alive, and may not be again. People straddling the line between those two worlds.

Meredith takes a moment to recall the first time she spent among the extended Shepherd family. It was brief – spectacular in all the wrong ways, at the end, but until then it was artificial in that way that happy events are. Happy, family events, the kind that always felt alien to her own life. People dressed up, made up, clinking glasses and mincing in uncomfortable shoes and … celebrating. It ended with the family anything but together, spread in pieces with Amy dragged off by the police, Nancy arguing with her sisters.

The opposite in pretty much every way from this visit. Landing in New York for a solemn occasion, her mother-in-law's illness eventually paling next to the tragic circumstances happening down the hall with Mark and his family.

Except now, at the end of that time – or what should have been the end – everyone is together.

In the waiting room, on those uncomfortable vinyl couches.

Amy is looking at her – expectantly, like she's waiting for something. Meredith, the eldest of sisters who formed no part of her childhood memories, has spent enough time now to recognize the baby sister in this woman who is older than she is. Amy's eyes are wide, their color recalling her husband's but set in such a different face. _I've done things_ , that's what Amy told her, but they're not evident in the soft – even youthful – contours of her face. Not really.

Slowly, Meredith nods. No words. But maybe offering what her sister-in-law requested: time.

"Welcome to the family," Amy says.

"…thanks."

…

"Tell me again," Nancy says, her dark eyes glittering.

Derek glances at Steve, who's sitting next to his wife and holding one of her hands in both of his. He swallows, uncomfortable with this role he's accepted of brother-surgeon when he's lacking real-time access to Joy's progress.

Nancy and Steve had five minutes with their daughter in between surgeries. They returned white-faced and silent, and Derek didn't ask questions.

But he's seen the scans, what they show and what they don't. And he's seeing Nancy now, searching his face, desperate for more information. They've been over this, but Nancy isn't the first parent of a patient to need repetition.

So they begin once more the routine they've already completed more than once. By now it's condensed, tightened; they can finish each other's sentences.

"We have to wait," Derek repeats quietly. "To assess the … effect," he says, stopping himself from saying _damage_ as he has each time. "Even though – "

"The surgery was successful," Nancy interrupts, her tone stubborn.

"Yes. I know." Derek looks at Steve again. The Nancy he knows would snap at him for directing his words, his gaze, at her husband instead of at her, but this Nancy – rigid with grief – either accepts or ignores it. "And that's … good."

"They can't diagnose a DAI yet, even if they suspect it."

"No," Derek agrees. "But coma six hours after the cessation of intravenous sedation –"

"But they haven't done an MRI."

"Right. It's too soon. "

"The diffuse swelling you saw on the CT – "

"We'll know more after the MRI," Derek reminds her patiently.

"It's been six hours since the accident," Nancy whispers. "More than."

Steve answers her this time, his tone gentle. "They're counting from the time –"

"I know that!" Nancy snaps. She pulls her hand out of Steve's. "Just – let me talk to Derek."

"Nancy," Derek intercedes.

"Derek, it's okay," Steve assures him. He kisses Nancy's cheek before he stands up.

Derek studies his sister's face.

"Go on," Nancy orders him impatiently.

"Nancy, I think Steve – "

"Forget it," she snaps. She stands up abruptly, wavering a little bit on her feet. Derek is half off the couch, nervous she's going to fall, but Steve materializes back at her side before he can decide whether to intervene. He steadies Nancy with a quick apologetic gaze in Derek's direction.

Nancy seems to have forgotten that she ordered Steve away. "When can we see Joy again?" she asks, sounding a little dazed.

"Not yet," Steve says, encouraging her to sit.

"Derek?" Nancy looks up at him. "Tell me again?"

…

The four walls of the hospital and the endless number of rabbit warrens within it make up the whole world.

Overnight, it's the whole world.

Meredith has never set foot in this hospital before, but it's completely familiar and new all at once. It smells like hospitals everywhere. It pulses with pale overnight energy like hospitals everywhere. People pass by in clumps and solo, in scrubs and wrinkled clothing. Everyone eyes are bloodshot, whether from exhaustion or grief or their combination.

She has the odd sense of some kind of old-fashioned arcade game – PacMan, maybe, she never paid much attention. Or pinball, with the hospital as its glass-encased borders. Derek's family is spread through the maze of it, pinging from wall to wall, room to room. Here someone is meeting with a doctor, there a sibling is gathering coffee, crossing in the hall with nothing more than a tired nod.

And then they slide back down the tunnel to the artificially cold family waiting room, with its eye-aching overhead tube lighting and squeaky stiff couches.

The door is open, and Meredith pauses for a moment on the threshold. Nancy is sitting between Liz and Kathleen; one sister has an arm around her, the other appears to be saying something. She's dressed in the kind of stiff fabrics Meredith tends to avoid; she can't be comfortable but is doubtless too consumed with Derek is leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms folded, looking down at his sisters – and then up at her, noticing her presence.

He slips over to join her before she can enter the room, beckoning her into the hall.

"How's Nancy?" Meredith asks.

"On edge," Derek says. Her husband's voice is low but steady, the shadows under his eyes testament to his exhaustion.

"That's understandable."

"Yeah." Derek looks down at his hands. "How's Amy?" He asks after a moment. He doesn't apologize for snapping at his younger sister and Meredith doesn't expect him to, but she hears a note in his voice suggesting he considered it before declining.

"She's … okay." Meredith pauses. "Steve called her, when we were talking."

Derek nods. "He's trying to get Nancy to see Jesse."

Her husband's expression makes clear that his campaign hasn't been successful.

"Amy said that no one can get Nancy to do something," Meredith recalls.

"Steve can," Derek says. "Sometimes. Certainly more than anyone else." He's quiet for a moment, thinking. "Nancy's been … hard on him."

"Tonight, you mean?"

"That too." His expression is thoughtful.

"She's not easy. He's – good with her. He always has been." Derek rubs a weary hand through his hair. "They have to wait, and Nancy's not exactly patient."

"Waiting is hard."

Derek nods. "She wants information that I don't have."

 _Patients always do_ , he doesn't say.

But then again, patients aren't usually his sister.

Meredith senses he needs a change of subject. "Did you see this?" she asks, offering her phone. Caitlin, who entered Meredith's number before leaving with Zola, has texted her a picture of their sleeping daughter.

Derek's face softens immediately. "She's sleeping."

"She's sleeping," Meredith agrees. "Either she didn't wake up on the trip, or one of the others is a toddler whisperer."

"They've had a lot of babies, between my mom and Rick. And Liz's girls were always – babysitting, working with kids, that kind of things."

"True. And the point is … she's sleeping."

"She is indeed sleeping. She's sleeping in your shirt," Derek points out.

Meredith nods, examining the picture again. It's an ordinary white t-shirt, but Zola looks adorable in it; she's stretched out on her back with one small hand wrapped around her stuffed animal. Meredith can see a sippy cup in the background, the rumpled pink covers of the small bed in the junior bedroom. Her little rosebud of a mouth is parted in sleep, its corners just very slightly turning up as if she's dreaming about something sweet.

She glances again at Zola's nighttime attire. "Her idea, you think? Or your nieces?"

"I don't know. Either way, it was probably a good one." Derek studies the picture. "I miss her."

"Me too." Meredith leans into him. "It's been, what – a couple of hours?"

"Yes," Derek admits, "but I won't tell anyone if you won't."

"It's a deal." His arms close around her and his heart beats against her ear. It's selfish, maybe, missing their perfectly healthy child, sleeping soundly in a bed with no monitors or tubes or wires.

But it's a selfishness they can share, at least, so they linger in the embrace with their unborn child between their entwined bodies, Derek still holding the phone with its picture of their daughter.

…

The family waiting room remains a magnet that pulls them back in.

No sooner have Derek and Meredith rejoined his three older sisters than Amy flickers into the doorway holding a paper cup of coffee. "Where's Steve?" she asks, while Liz makes unfortunately subtle _cut it out_ gestures with her free hand.

"With Jesse," Nancy says without looking at her.

"Oh." Amy sits down on one of the squeaky pleather couches, wincing a little at the sound. There's more squeaking when she shifts, crossing her legs.

"Would you just sit still?" Nancy snaps.

Amy's eyes widen.

"Nancy," Kathleen says gently, "why don't we take a walk, stretch your legs a little …"

"I don't want to miss any updates."

"One of us can stay. And if the doctor comes – "

" _No_ , Kathy." Nancy moves away from her irritably.

Liz opens her mouth to say something; Kathleen lays a hand on her arm, shaking her head slightly.

Amy looks up at Derek, moving her head only as much as necessary to see him, apparently afraid to make too much noise on the squeaking couch.

"He's taking a long time," Nancy says to no one in particular. Her voice sounds a little congested.

Derek exchanges a glance with Liz. "Do you want someone to – check on him?" he asks, half hoping she'll say no, or at least that she'll recruit someone else. He's not sure he wants to go to Jesse's room to talk to Steve, with all that entails.

"Yes. Okay." Nancy nods. "You go," she says, and because you don't argue with the grieving mother about who does what – Derek remembers this – he leaves a mercifully non-squeaking Meredith at Amy's side and goes in search of his brother-in-law.

…

Every pavilion has a name and every wing, every department, every room. What makes perfect sense in the hospitals where he's worked, spent day and night and turned into a second home, seems purposefully Byzantine here.

Jesse's out of the ICU, he knows this. He's step-down, but not this step-down, the other step-down. Finally, he's at the large double-doors leading to the room he's promised holds his nephew, but before he can press the button to request entrance, Steve is exiting.

"Nancy was looking for you," Derek says before he can consider a more diplomatic greeting.

Steve just nods.

"How's Jesse doing?"

"He's uncomfortable." Steve glances back to the now-closed double doors as if concerned his son will hear. "They've given him something for the pain but he's metabolizing more rapidly than they can administer. It's difficult to understand him. And he's dealing with some withdrawal symptoms."

Derek nods.

"He's asking for his mother," Steve adds, not looking at Derek.

Derek swallows, recalling Nancy's adamant refusal to see her son.

"I'm going to check on Sarah," Steve says. "Carly hasn't left her side, but I'd like to see her."

"Of course." Derek falls into step with his brother-in-law as they walk toward the elevators. They stand in the fluorescent entryway waiting; Steve's head is bowed, his shoulders curved forward with something between grief and defeat. Derek is seized with the urge to say … something. But what?

Steve breaks the silence instead.

"Can you tell Nancy I'm stopping in to see Sarah?" he asks. "I'll be back after that."

Derek thinks about his rotations among his children, about his patience with Nancy, whose fear and exhaustion have translated predictably to snappishness and all-out anger.

"Steve … thank you," he says.

Steve looks confused. "For what?"

"Just – I know Nancy is … having a hard time." Derek considers his words; how can he express his appreciation – everyone's, really – that Steve has stuck by Nancy's side all these years? "I know it's difficult."

"You don't have to thank me." Now Steve sounds irritated. Derek isn't used to his sounding anything but calm – even walking in on the melee in their Brooklyn townhouse, what might one day when they map all of this out be seen as _the start_ … even then, he was calm.

Derek nods, unsure of what to say.

"I just mean that you're – that you're dealing with a lot."

"That's the same thing, with different words," Steve says.

"I'm sorry." Derek isn't really sure what to say. "Look, if you'd rather be alone, I understand. I'll wait for the next elevator."

"Forget it." Steve looks at him for a moment. "No, actually – don't forget it. It's offensive," he says.

The elevator arrives, and Steve doesn't get on it.

Derek takes the prompt: "What's offensive?"

"You," Steve says simply. "You think I don't know what you think of Nancy?"

Derek shakes his head. "It's not – "

"No, don't bother." Steve presses the elevator call button again, twice, then turns to face him. "I do know. All of you, you and your sisters – _thanking_ me, like I'm doing you a favor. Like I'm trying to make _your_ lives easier, by loving my wife. It's offensive," he repeats. "But you? For someone who was mad that everyone seemed surprised he was a decent enough guy to look after Mark's kid – I'd think you'd understand, Derek. I would think you'd get it. I'm not doing this for you. I'm not doing this for your sisters, or your mother. I've spent twenty-five years with Nancy. I've loved her for half my life. I don't need you to _thank_ me."

Steve pauses for breath. It's probably the most Derek's ever heard him speak at once, and the angriest he's seen him, not counting close-call Yankee losses.

"You're right," Derek says simply. "I'm sorry."

Steve nods, his face calm again. The elevator doors open. "Please tell Nancy I'll be down in a few minutes," he says as the doors close.

…

Nancy looks up anxiously when he reenters the room. "Did you see Steve?"

 _More of him than I ever expected to._

Derek just nods. "He's checking on Sarah. He'll be back in a few minutes."

Amy and Meredith are missing from the other couch.

"They're stretching their legs," Kathleen says before he can ask.

Liz is doing the same thing, in the room. Her back is arched; she's rubbing at the small of it, wincing. Derek catches her eye; neither says anything, but the share the kind of glance you do when you've known each other at your physical peaks, when your bodies are strong and supple and able to sit for long periods without stiffening knees and aching backs.

He has a very brief recollection of being seven or eight years old and sitting in the green-painted bleachers at their public high school, watching Liz dominate the field in a blue field hockey skirt and jersey with _Shepherd_ printed on the back. Derek would pick at the chipping paint on the bench, mostly bored, until his mother or father nudged him. Then he'd cheer appropriately, but it was nothing major. Derek preferred his sisters' softball games because at least they were more like baseball, which interested him. But mainly it was boring because his big sisters were always playing some sport or another and it seemed like they always would be: running somewhere, throwing a ball, hitting something. Stamina and grace were easy; they were nothing to get excited about. They were a constant, something that would always be there. Like his best friend, or his parents.

He lowers himself carefully onto one of the squeaking couches – sufficiently muffled that Nancy doesn't criticize him – and distracts himself from _constant_ by opening his phone to see the picture Meredith forwarded him. In the quiet waiting room he studies his daughter's sweet, sleeping face until the silence turns – if not peaceful – at least something other than oppressive.

…

"How's Sarah?" Nancy asks as soon as Steve returns, standing up to greet him.

"Sleeping," Steve says, kissing her cheek.

Which presumably means any more details of the accident are yet to be revealed.

Steve looks at Liz. "Carly won't leave; I already told her she should go, but she doesn't want to."

"She's stubborn," Liz says softly. "And she loves Sarah."

"She'll be a good doctor," Kathleen says.

"Not if she can't study." Nancy's toying with the bracelet on her wrist, fingers shaking slightly. "Not if she can't sleep."

"It's one night," Liz says gently.

Steve nods. "The nurses have a cot for her. Hopefully, she'll get some sleep."

"How's Jesse doing?" Kathleen asks.

Nancy stiffens visibly at the question; that's the moment Meredith and Amy reappear in the magnet of the family waiting room.

"You okay?" he asks quietly when Meredith reaches his side. He's given up on trying to get her sleep – out loud, anyway. She just nods.

Steve turns back to Kathleen. "Jesse is … uncomfortable," he says, the same word he used when Derek inquires.

Nancy clears her throat.

Derek exchanges a glance with Kathleen. _Don't push_ , the glance says.

"Nancy – when are you going to see him?" Amy asks.

Derek winces. Of course Amy has never met a controversial issue she won't push.

"When I'm ready." Nancy's tone suggests she's had enough, but Amy continues.

"I'll go with you if you want me to," she offers. Amy and Steve exchange a glance Nancy can't have missed.

"I don't want you to," Nancy responds coldly.

"Nancy, I know you're angry with him, but – "

"You don't know anything." Nancy's voice shakes as she interrupts. "Not a thing."

"Amy." Steve shakes his head at her, just slightly. "It's okay."

"Fine." Amy holds up both her hands. "Don't see him." She turns to Steve. "Have they set his broken nose yet?"

Nancy winces a little at _broken nose_ , which Derek assumes was Amy's intent.

"Amy," Steve says quietly.

"You never know what it's going to look like after," Amy muses. "Bigger, though. It's usually bigger. Maybe Jess'll end up with a Shepherd nose after all instead of that little pug thing."

Nancy turns on her, dark eyes glittering. "This is funny to you, Amy?" she demands. Derek sees Steve rest a hand on his wife's arm as if he's preparing to restrain her.

"No. It's not funny." Amy takes a step closer to her. "It's serious, Nancy. You _seriously_ need to go see your son."

Nancy raises her voice. "Stay out of this, Amy, this has nothing to do with you."

"Honey," Steve says quietly, shaking his head, "don't take it out on Amy."

"Defending her again?" Nancy turns on Steve now, raising her eyebrows. "I almost forgot about your secret relationship with her."

"Nancy."

"Oh, but you needed her _wisdom._ Amy the Expert. All that great advice she had that led us right here."

Derek sees Kathleen and Liz exchange a glance. The chilled air in the room prickles.

"That's not fair, Nance." Steve's voice is even and placating, but for once his calmness seems to be winding Nancy up instead of settling her. "It's not Amy's fault."

"Maybe I think it is."

"Nancy. You don't need to do this."

"Maybe _you_ don't need to flirt with my little sister while my daughter is in critical condition!"

Liz winces; Amy's eyes widen.

"I'm sorry," Steve says quietly to Amy.

"Don't you dare apologize to her! I don't care if you're screwing her, but you'd better not – "

" _Nancy._ " Steve doesn't raise his voice, but his tone is sharp enough that Derek sees his sister take a shuddering breath.

"Get her out of here," Nancy says, gesturing to Amy.

"Nancy," Liz says gently, "you don't need to – "

"Now!"

"It's okay, I'm going." Amy grabs her coffee cup; the door closes hard behind her. Meredith glances at him, nodding slightly toward the door, and then she's gone too.

Derek is aware that he and his other two sisters and Steve are standing in sort of semi-circle around Nancy now; Derek knows that Nancy's surest trigger is feeling cornered, and even if they're all there to support her he's not sure it's evident.

"I'm not doing this," Nancy says. Her words are sure, but her voice is shaking. "I don't want to do this. Not with him."

"You don't have to see him yet if you're not ready," Steve says. "But he's asking for you."

"I'm never going to be ready."

"Nancy."

" _Steve_." She mimics his tone. "Did you forget why we're here? Why Joy is – "

"No, I didn't forget," he says quietly.

"Then stop asking me to see him. Stop telling me he's asking for me. I don't care. I don't care!"

She whirls away, shoulders taut with anger.

"Nancy." Steve waits for her to turn around. "You do care. He's our son."

"Speak for yourself."

" _Nancy_."

"No. No! I don't want to see him. I have nothing to say to him, he can just – _don't_ ," she says, pulling away when he tries to put his arms around her.

"Don't say things you'll regret," Steve says quietly; Derek gets the sense it's a phrase he's had to use more than once.

"I won't regret this." Nancy's voice shakes. "We have two daughters in the hospital, Steve, did you forget that?"

Derek finds himself flinching on his brother-in-law's behalf.

"I didn't forget." Steve still sounds calm. "But we also have a son in the hospital."

"I don't," Nancy says coldly.

"Nancy." It's Liz this time, she breathes her sister's name with something like horror."

"I don't!" Nancy glares at Steve. "As far as I'm concerned, I don't have a son. So you and Amy can do whatever you –"

It happens so fast it doesn't seem real, like he could have blinked and missed it.

One second Derek is listening to Nancy's loud voice, shaking with anger.

There's a loud cracking sound, the loudest thing in the room.

The next second, Steve is staring at his own palm, horror all over his drawn features. Nancy has one hand clasped to her cheek, her dark eyes huge and stunned.

It's one more second, maybe, before Derek gets between them, moving on pure instinct.

 _Surprise_ would be an understatement; he's suddenly wondering if he's been wrong about Steve for the last quarter century.

But his brother-in-law, frozen a half a foot away staring at his own hand, looks so devastated, so shocked, that this can't be a habit.

If it is, he's a truly gifted actor.

"Steve, take a walk. _Take a walk_ ," Derek repeats firmly, waiting until his brother-in-law has staggered, looking in a daze, out of the room before he turns to Nancy.

Liz is already standing by her side. Kathleen is a few steps away, watching quietly.

"Nancy … are you okay?" Liz rests a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm fine," she says after a moment, her voice cracking slightly; slowly, she releases her grip on the side of her face.

Derek sees Liz exchange a glance with Kathleen.

Derek extends a careful toward Nancy's sharp jaw, trying to move her face so he can see her cheek. She brushes his hand down impatiently, carelessly, like he's a fly buzzing around. Dazed, her dark eyes are mirrors for the fluorescent lights overhead.

Did he misread her shock? Was it … complacency?

…

"At what point does this constitute stalking?"

"I'm not a lawyer, but I think I'd need to find you a few more times," Meredith says mildly. "And I guess if you don't want to be found … you could choose a different viewing room."

"I'll keep that in mind." She nods toward Meredith's empty hands. "No coffee this time?"

"No. But I can stalk you to the cafeteria if you want."

Amy's mouth quirks. "Nah, I think I've had enough caffeine. I wouldn't mind a drink, though."

She seems to be saying it to test Meredith, who doesn't react.

"Don't worry, I'm not actually going to do it. But hospitals should consider selling alcohol, don't you think? They could probably make enough in one overnight shift to fund a new MRI machine."

Amy looks small perched half on the little strip of formica serving as a desk. She tilts her head up to Meredith.

"The liquor license might be an issue."

"I thought you weren't a lawyer."

"I'm not. I'm just someone who's also wished a few times that hospitals sold tequila instead of … stale pretzels and those cheese-cracker things no one ever buys."

Amy's eyes skim over the middle of Meredith's body.

"You miss drinking?" she asks.

"Right now? Yeah, I guess I do."

Amy folds her arms. "Just a few more months for you. Maybe I'd be better off pregnant." She must see something in Meredith's expression. "I'm not pregnant, don't worry. _God_ , that would just be the cherry on top of all of this, wouldn't it? If this were soap opera, it'd be Steve's baby. God knows he's fertile enough."

Meredith lets the words blow over her and Amy winds down on her own.

"I didn't sleep with him," she says, her voice smaller now, more tired than aggressive. "Nothing ever happened. He called me to talk about Jesse and now Nancy's on this … kick. But it's not true."

"I know."

"How?"

"I don't know. I just do." Meredith studies her for a moment. "Call it a gut feeling."

"Nancy's gut feeling is the opposite."

"Nancy and I are different people," Meredith reminds her.

"Understatement of the freakin' year." Amy rolls her eyes. "He's a good guy, Steve. Puts up with a lot."

"Maybe he doesn't see it that way."

Amy seems to consider this. "Well, there's no accounting for taste."

Meredith has to fight a smile.

"Anyway, I figured she'd be less likely to kill him if I left the room," Amy says. "And _this_ room is tiny and I really have to pee but I'm not really anxious to get back to the whole … group."

Meredith nods.

Amy looks at her for a moment. "Good thing my brother already put a ring on it," she says, raising an eyebrow, "now that he's stopped hiding the crazy Shepherds in the attic like Mrs. Freakin' Rochester. We're all downstairs now."

Meredith has a brief flash to a warm drizzly evening on the beach, the aftermath of Amy and Nancy; the moment smells of cloyingly sweet wedding cake – smashed – and the burning sizzle that precedes fireworks. She hears Derek's voice.

 _"Hey, Mer … remember when I said things were never boring with the Shepherds?"_

 _"Yeah. I thought you meant you played flag football or something."_

 _"No, those were the Kennedys. The Shepherds' sports are a little rougher and our dysfunction is a little closer to the surface," he says grimly._

Amy's face is casual, even insolent – it could be that in this moment she's enjoying her family role as instigator, needler of Nancy's hair trigger. Or it could be that Nancy is still clinging to old hurts, always ready to throw Amy to the wolves.

Or there could be more than two choices. A whole spectrum of grey in between the black and the white.

"Derek wasn't hiding his family. He wasn't hiding any of you," she says.

"Derek hides things." Amy's tone is an insistent youngest sister's. "He didn't want anyone to know about what happened to our dad. It took him years to tell Addison. All those Christmases where she thought he died in a freaking car accident and I was supposed to smile and nod even though I was there when they blew his – "

She stops talking.

"Sorry," she says after a moment. "Believe it or not, I've had a fair amount of therapy."

Meredith leans against the wall for support. Amy's outburst tired her; she can only imagine how it made Amy feel. "I believe it."

"Can I say one more thing?" Amy asks after a moment. Her voice is calm, the storm seemingly passed.

"Could I really stop you?"

Amy smiles slightly at this. "Fair point. Um. I missed him," she says. "Things were screwed up for a long time and I get that, but I missed him, when he moved away. Actually, that's one of the few things Nancy and I can agree on."

Meredith nods.

"I also get that moving away was the best thing that ever happened to him," Amy continues. "Not just because of you. When he was here, he was – running in circles. Trapped in the vortex or whatever, of all of us."

"So the best thing that happened to him kind of sucked for the rest of us." Amy tilts her head slightly, another gesture reminiscent of her older brother. "Kind of selfish of us to resent it, isn't it?"

Meredith doesn't respond.

"People are selfish, though. People suck. They suck a lot." Amy purses her lips as if she's weighing her own words. "That's not a Shepherd thing. That's an everyone thing." She pauses again. "You're not going to tell me I'm wrong?"

"Nope."

"Huh." Amy seems to be considering this. "I guess I was right that this family needed some new blood."

…

Nancy turns away when he tries to look at her face, but under the harsh lights the red mark on her cheek is obvious. The unforgiving fluorescents emphasize the years that have passed, highlighting her prominent facial bones so that her skin seems as exhausted as she is. Paper thin.

"Has he done that before?" he asks.

"Shut up, Derek," Nancy says tiredly.

"Nancy."

"No. Don't pretend to care."

"That's not fair." He touches her shoulder. "Nancy, I know this is an incredibly stressful time, but that doesn't excuse – "

"Shut _up_ ," she repeats, her voice rising higher now with a note of hysteria. She turns to Liz, her voice pleading. "Lizzie, make him shut up."

Liz shushes her gently, an arm around her shoulders, exchanging a worried glance with Derek.

He feels Kathleen's hand on his arm, encouraging him to step back, so he does. While Liz speaks quietly with Nancy on one side of the room, Derek lowers his voice to a whisper so he can speak to Kathleen.

"What the hell was that?"

"I don't know." His older sister shakes her head, looking troubled. "I've never seen him like that before. I've never even seen him angry."

Derek has, for the first time, when his brother-in-law confronted him at the elevators. Should he have known he was close to the breaking point? Should he have intervened earlier?

"You think he's done it before?" Derek asks.

"No. I don't know," Kathleen says. She sounds very tired. "But I don't think so. Derek … you've been gone for seven years. You've been back for two weeks."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means … that we're all glad to see you, but you might not know us as well as you think you do."

"I don't think I know you that well," he says honestly. "But I didn't think Steve was a …." He doesn't finish the sentence.

"People aren't things," Kathleen reminds him. "People _do_ things."

"I know that." Derek looks toward the couch where Liz is now sitting with Nancy. He can't hear what they're saying.

Carefully, and somewhat reluctantly, he approaches his sisters. Liz stands when she sees Derek, and lets him take her place.

"Please don't say anything." Nancy's voice is uncharacteristically small; she waits to address him until he's sitting down. "To Mom, or … to anyone."

He exhales. "Nancy…"

"Please, Derek. It was one time – I know that's what everyone says, I know that's what always gets said, but it's true. You can't hold it against him, not when the kids are – not when we're here," she amends, her voice shaking a little.

"I'm your brother," he says, his throat feeling thick.

"Little brother," she says, raising her eyes to meet his.

"Younger brother," he corrects her. "I can still, you know … beat him up for you." He tries to smile around the ache in his throat; it doesn't quite work.

"And risk your hands?" Nancy shakes her head. "Plus, I thought you didn't condone violence."

"I don't." He studies his sister's face. Her features are so stark, her bones prominent. She's imposing when she stands, sharp but breakable here on this couch. His stomach tightens at the mark on her cheek.

"Derek … don't." Nancy is shaking her head, maybe seeing what he is. "Please. I don't want this to make you think that Steve is – that he's – " she stops speaking. "He's a good man," she says fiercely. "The best one I know. It's _crazy_ right now, things are crazy, and I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said it."

"Nancy." He shakes his head. "It's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" She leans back, raising an eyebrow. "I know he didn't sleep with Amy. And I know how he feels about my suggesting he did."

Derek considers this. Nancy let loose such a torrent of anger that he's not sure what she considers to be the provocation. He feels sure, though, that nothing excuses what Steve did.

"That still doesn't give him the right to – "

"What gives _me_ the right?" Nancy interrupts, her eyes glittering.

Derek has no answer for that; he's saved, somewhat, when Kathleen returns with a cup of coffee for Nancy. It must be sweetened, based on his sister's expression of displeasure, but he can't disagree that she could use the sugar.

He sees Liz gesture to him and joins her on the other side of the waiting room. The fluorescent-lit room has become an extension of the living room in the home where they grew up: there are factions in different corners, games with different strategies against different walls. Even the smallest of spaces can be divided.

"What happened?" Derek asks her before he can stop himself. They're both well on the other side of forty but Liz is still the oldest.

Tradition dictates she should have answers.

"I don't know," Liz says quietly. Her dark eyes are troubled; Derek remembers that Nancy is her little sister. Liz's role is mediator; she's calm, sibling chaos rolling off her. Then again, he thought Steve was calm too. "They're under stress," Liz says after a moment. "Both of them."

"That's no excuse."

"I'm not saying it is. Just – that maybe it doesn't have to be this … huge thing."

Derek feels his eyes widening. "Liz. How can it not be a huge thing?" He shakes his head, feeling like he's falling through the looking glass. "It already is." He frowns, then takes a step back, wondering if he's somehow missed complacency all around. "You're not saying that Cooper – "

"Of course not." Liz makes an impatient gesture.

"Then what – "

"I don't _know_ , Derek. Nancy is difficult under the best of circumstances and these are more like the worst."

"But that's not – "

"But we don't know," Liz repeats. "Who knows what any of us would do?"

…

No one tells him to go find Steve.

Maybe he's getting better at reading silent Shepherd rooms. Maybe he should stay out of it.

But he was the one who sent Steve away in the first place, _take a walk_ , that's what he said, like he was a soccer coach and Steve had a cramp. And Steve listened.

So Derek is tracking his way alone down sticky linoleum floors. He looks in a few open rooms, aimless, but the faces that look up at him are familiar only for their expressions – exhausted, fearful, grief-ravaged. Hospital faces. Middle-of-the-night faces.

He finds his brother-in-law outside.

It's hot; that's the first thing he thinks. Summer has enough of a hold that even the middle of the night isn't untouched by the breath-stealing suffocation of an August in the city.

Steve is standing a few feet away from the awning, leaning against a green metal trash can and the next thing Derek thinks is that Nancy would be horrified by such an unsanitary position. Even Derek isn't thrilled by it, having more familiarity than he would like with what takes hold within sweating high summer garbage.

There's no real dark in the city and certainly not at a hospital where spinning red lights dominate the street. It's crowded midtown, halfway between twelve and dawn no reason for quiet. He has the sensation of something scurrying past his foot and feels vaguely nauseated.

Stepping away quickly, he approaches the stoop-shouldered figure.

"Is she okay?" Steve asks before Derek can say anything, searching his face. "Derek … please."

He looks so desperate for any information that Derek relents.

"She's as okay as you can expect," he says.

Steve's breaths are ragged, as if he's just finished a run. "I need to see her," he says. "I need to – "

"You don't get to make the speeches now," Derek interrupts, shaking his head. "What the hell was that?"

Steve doesn't answer. His face is tight with pain.

Derek thinks about what set him off; Nancy seems convinced it was her accusations – and feels chilled.

"You didn't actually sleep with her," he says, horror dawning. "Did you?"

"Jesus." Steve shakes his head. "Of course I didn't. That's what you think of me?"

"I don't know what I think of you right now," Derek says honestly.

"You think that's worse than – " Steve stops talking, and Derek remembers the frozen seconds before everything changed.

 _As far as I'm concerned, I don't have a son._

"I didn't sleep with Amy," Steve says tightly, his expression grim. "I would never."

"I didn't think you would," Derek admits, "but I also didn't think you would slap your wife in the face, so maybe I don't know you at all."

Steve flinches at the description.

"I didn't mean to," he says, his eyes haunted. "I don't know what happened, I just – " he stops talking.

Derek knows that three of Steve's children are in the hospital, two of them facing uncertain futures: one legally, one medically. Stress reactions are hardly abnormal, and Nancy's needling him when they were on edge – snapping doesn't seem terribly illogical.

Still, the recollection of the slap – the sound of it, so loud in the quiet waiting room. The force of it, the way it turned Nancy to the side and the grip of her hand on her cheek afterwards. Derek is cold, thinking about it. Nancy is the tallest of his sisters, sharp eyed and sharp tongued and he's never exactly seen her as a delicate flower. Always older, always bossier, she was hardly in need of his defense. So he's surprised now to feel flooded with protectiveness, with anger at his brother-in-law. He's not sure whether the anger is protective of Nancy or some misplaced protectiveness of his own wife. The idea of touching her like that nauseates him.

He stands there next to the green metal trash can in the hot malodorous air, silent, replaying the moment on a loop.

"You can't do that," Derek says finally.

"I know." Steve is gripping the edge of the trash can now with all ten fingers; for a brief darkly humorous moment Derek thinks Nancy with her rigid cleanliness standards would prefer a slap to that use of Steve's hands.

"You're as scared as she is. Which makes sense. You get to blow off steam. You get to break down, even. But not like that. Not when she's half your size and she's not going to hit you back." Derek studies his brother-in-law's grief-ravaged face. "And hitting people who won't hit you back is … bad. It's the start of something bad."

Steve doesn't answer.

"I punched Mark in the face once." Derek takes a position on the other side of the large metal trash can, parallel to his brother-in-law, and continues the recollection. "It was a right cross." He studies his unmarked knuckles. "He's the one who taught me how to do it when Paulie Costello was … but the point is, I punched him. In the face. It was the day of my father's funeral. Mark went, he sat next to me in the church. I … held his hand," Derek admits. "I was embarrassed, you know, I was already thirteen, but Nancy was on my other side and I didn't want her to think I was still a little kid. So I held Mark's hand.

"And when we got back to the house I walked away from all the coffee and cake and people … touching my face, trying to cry on me, and I went out to the shed and took my hockey stick to everything I could find on the storage shelves. Mark found me there."

Steve is listening quietly.

"He took the stick … and he was trying to talk to me but I didn't want to talk. The stick was the one thing I had to feel better and he took it away from me. I didn't have anything left to feel better. So I punched him."

Derek draws a deep breath of stale, hot air, inhaling on the memory.

"I punched him," he repeats, "and he didn't do anything. He was bigger than I was, Mark was always bigger than I was, and he could have hit me back. But he didn't. I yelled at him. I called him a coward, and I told him to get out. I told him to get out of the shed and the house and away from us. Told him to go home where he belonged.

"I don't remember very much from that day, but I do remember that." He pauses. "When I went back in the house, Mark was in the den away from all the – face-touching, and the crying, sitting on the floor playing Connect Four with Amy and letting her cheat, just like always. And to this day I don't know how much of that is because he wanted to be there for us and how much is because he had nowhere else to go. I just remember that he didn't hit me back, and I remember him sitting on that shag rug that always swallowed up the game pieces."

"What did you do?"

"Sat down and played with them," Derek says.

It's been years since he tried to unravel the complicated, interwoven bonds between himself and Mark, between Mark and the rest of the Shepherds.

But he still remembers the way the air felt in the shed – cold and stale – and the beetle resting on the rough-plank floor next to the hockey stick. It was one of those hard-shelled Connecticut ones he certainly doesn't miss, lying belly-up on the floor with its legs folded in defeat.

Dead.

And the stick in his hands; it was taped up – no Shepherd athletic equipment survived long without some homemade patching.

How it felt to swing it, the whistling of displaced air.

As for Nancy? When he thinks about it, words are her hockey stick – with the exception of some memorable moments with Amy, she was rarely physical. But he knows she can be as vicious and cutting as anyone else with sticks or swinging clubs.

"Derek. I need to see her," Steve says, his tone urgent. "I know that I – but she needs me. Don't ask me to stay away."

Derek studies his brother-in-law. For so long they've all considered Steve a rock. He's cracked.

Human.

Slowly, he nods.

Steve looks at him, then inclines his chin a little as if offering a target.

"You can hit me," Steve offers. "I have it coming."

"Maybe you do," Derek says. "But I'm not going to."

"Your hands," Steve suggests, glancing at Derek's unclenched fists.

"That's not why." Derek shakes his head. "Like I said … hitting someone who won't hit you back is the start of something bad."

…

Back in the waiting room, Nancy is sitting on the couch between Liz and Kathleen, not speaking, twisting the strap of her handbag in her lap. She glances up mutely when Derek returns, the red mark clear on her cheek.

Kathleen exchanges a glance with him. He's not sure what she's asking, or what his own gaze communicates back. He's exhausted: professionally, even as a parent, he's used to nights on little sleep. But this night, huddled in the hospital waiting for news, the strangled emotion of Nancy and Steve … he's more tired than he can remember being. Simultaneously, he misses Meredith and Zola with a fierce desperation, and is relieved that they aren't here.

"Derek?" Nancy's voice sounds hoarse, underused. "Did you see Steve?"

He nods.

"Is he okay?" she asks.

How to answer that question?

"He's worried about you," Derek says. He's forgotten what it feels like, all this time across the country, but it's re-emblazoned on his memory now: moving from one person to another like a sea-tossed sailboat, in circles and figure eights. Trying to keep the peace, trying to make things right. He felt like a failure half the time. More than half, by the time he left.

Now he lowers himself onto the couch next to his sister, still blinking a little in the fluorescent lights, and they sit side by side until the waiting room door opens.

Nancy stands the moment Steve enters the room – he's hovering in the doorway like a beaten dog – swiftly crosses the linoleum floor and locks her arms around his neck. He just stands there for a moment, his arms limply by his sides, before he slowly lifts them and wraps them around her.

It should be a private moment, maybe, but Derek is wary of leaving them alone and a quick look exchanged with Liz and Kathleen suggests they agree.

Long moments pass in silence before they separate, the other siblings' eyes tactfully averted..

Then Steve is holding Nancy's face carefully between his palms, tracing his thumb over the red mark on her cheek. They stand close together in the doorway, mirroring their earlier posture, holding each other tightly.

A funhouse mirror, like he one that made Zola shriek with laughter at the children's museum – because everything is the same but also different.

Nancy and Steve are sitting side by side on the waiting room couch. He's half turned to face her so he's surrounding her, his hand rubbing her back slowly while she rests her face in her hand. Their positions are almost identical to earlier this evening, except that if she were to move her hand, there would be a red stain on her cheek from her husband's hand.

Everything would be the same, except different.

…

The minute hand ekes its way around the clock as the unscheduled schedule of the waiting room drags through what's left of the night. Four … five … the shadowy shape of the hours they should have been sleeping.

The occupants of the room are suspended between asleep and awake.

In the air that is thick with anticipated grief, artificially cold from the buzzing fans, they move in and out and around each other.

Nancy and Steve take turns checking on Sarah.

Derek takes a turn, with Meredith; he finds two of his nieces asleep. Carly is holding a textbook, using it more or less as a pillow on the cot the nurses provided. They stand in the room quietly for a few minutes, listening to the reassuring sounds of the monitors. In the relative, hospital-bound privacy of the elevator, of the hall, he tells her what she missed in the waiting room. He hears her inhale. _You're a good brother_ , she says.

He could almost laugh – if anyone has ever said those words to him, it certainly hasn't been anytime in the last ten years – but he can't, not during this overnight suspended animation where laughter is too close to tears.

Liz and Kathleen sit with Nancy while Steve checks on Jesse – he doesn't ask Nancy to join him, and she doesn't say anything when he returns.

Amy disappears; she returns carrying a cardboard tray of coffee.

Liz peels down the sides of a banana and offers it to Nancy, who brushes it away without looking.

Derek opens the picture of a sleeping Zola again, his thumb moving against the phone almost unconsciously.

Meredith's hand folds into his. He wraps an arm around her. Her small body is warm against his, and alert despite the hour.

…

Kathleen is murmuring to Nancy, trying to get her to eat something – Derek doesn't disagree; Nancy is pale and shaky, Steve upstairs talking to Jesse's doctors. He's considering whether his intervention would help or hurt the cause when Liz's surprised voice carries over the others.'

"Mom!"

Everyone looks up to see Carolyn Shepherd in the open doorway. There's a light cardigan over her arm – she always carried one, usually draped over her shoulders. If she didn't get cold, someone else might. _Prepared_ , that's what she was, with her sensible shoes and bandaids in her purse and a metal canteen of water in the back of their station wagon before they drove off on hot days.

And she's alone.

"Where are the others?" Kathleen asks, rising to her feet. "Rick, and all the kids? Is everything okay?"

"They're at Derek and Meredith's apartment," their mother says. "The children are sleeping. They're fine."

"You came alone?" Liz is standing too now, a hand propped on her hip.

"Yes, Elizabeth, I hailed a taxi all by myself at the ripe old age of … seventy-something." Carolyn shakes her head at her eldest. "I'm not an invalid, you know." She looks from one of her children to the next. "I went to the apartment, as you requested, and I slept. Now I want to know how my grandchildren are."

Nancy is silent from her position on the couch, and their mother doesn't seem to miss this.

It's Kathleen who updates her, quietly, Derek filling in the gaps where necessary.

Their mother's broad face is impassive as she takes in the details. She's always been stockier than the rest of the family but she seems small under the fluorescent lights, shrunken.

"You had surgery," Liz says gently, perhaps perceiving the same thing. "Mom, you shouldn't be running around like this. You can't help anyone if you don't let yourself heal."

Carolyn just blinks at her.

Derek reads the unspoken message: that their mother won't heal if she can't help anyone.

"It's six a.m.," Liz says. "Barely."

"Yes. I can tell time," their mother says shortly. "I'm the one who taught you to tell time, in fact."

"Did you at least tell Rick you were leaving?" Kathleen asks, her tone resigned.

"Yes, Kathy, I did." Carolyn raises her eyebrows. "Which is more of a courtesy than you and Nancy allowed me the night you ran off to see that … concert in Central Park. If you recall."

Kathleen blinks. "I had forgotten about that," she says. "It was the bicentennial, there was all this – " She turns to Derek. "I don't actually remember who was playing."

"Jefferson Starship," Nancy says. Her voice is small and thick. They're the first words she's spoken since their mother arrived. "It was raining."

"Pouring. It was a free concert," Kathleen adds. "We did ask you, Mom, but you said we couldn't go. We were hoping the free part would convince you."

"Yes, I remember you telling me that once you got home." Carolyn shakes her head.

"While you were telling us how we'd never see the light of day again." Kathleen smiles a little bit. "We hitchhiked."

"With that weird trucker." Nancy is standing now. Kathleen wraps an arm around her when she reaches her side.

Derek remembers this, vaguely, the way he recalls events in his sisters' lives that didn't directly affect him at the time. He can close his eyes and summon a damp post-rain morning and his mother shouting at Kathleen – something about responsibility, probably.

"Mom was madder at me," Kathleen recalls now. "You were younger," she tells Nancy, "and I should have been looking out for you."

"But I had a great night," Nancy tells Kathleen quietly. "As far as I'm concerned … you were looking out for me."

Nancy is inches from her mother; there's no way Carolyn can miss the red mark on her cheek, though it's grown fainter.

Derek sees his mother's hand rise slightly, as if to touch Nancy's face, and then lower again.

"Have you slept?" Carolyn asks after a moment. "Any of you?"

The siblings exchange glances.

"Come sit down, Mom," Liz says. "And you, Nance. Everyone, sit."

…

Nancy and Amy are seated as far from each other as two people can be in this box of a room, taking up opposite ends of two different squeaky couches. Nancy checks the time frequently; Derek knows she's anxious, and he's also curious at the length of Steve's absence.

"Nancy." Meredith's tone is gentle. "Do you want me to check on him?"

Slowly, Nancy nods.

Derek is resting a hand on his wife's narrow back. He has to restrain himself from saying what he'd like to, _Meredith doesn't need to go_ or _Send Lizzie_ or _I'll go instead_. Not his pregnant wife who hasn't slept, who's been thrust into the center of the Shepherd tornado without the lifetime of preparation the rest of them have had.

"It's okay," Meredith tells him quietly. "I want to stretch my legs anyway."

He nods; she touches the side of his face and then she's gone.

Carolyn looks around the room, perhaps noticing it's just her five children now.

In a room together. Like she wanted.

Except nothing like what she wanted.

"Jesse didn't like that … rehab place," Nancy says after a long silence. Her voice sounds throaty and disused.

Derek exchanges a glance with Amy, surprised to hear his sister saying her son's name.

Their mother just nods as if Nancy's non sequitur were totally expected.

"He didn't like that rehab. Maybe he wouldn't have run away, if he'd been somewhere else."

"It's not the center's fault," Amy says, ignoring the shake of Kathleen's head designed to quiet her.

"You're right," Nancy says. She folds her arms, staring at Amy. "It's yours."

"Nancy," Liz says.

"She pushed it. Amy pushed and she pushed until Jesse had no choices left." Nancy's voice is shaking. "He was doing fine – "

"Fine?" Amy's eyes widen. "He was drunk in the middle of the day, snorting prescription speed and turning your daughters into criminals!"

Nancy's cheeks flush enough to blend with the red stain marring one side of it. Warning bells go off in the back of Derek's mind. Nancy unhinged without Steve present to calm her down feels particularly dangerous right now.

"Amy." Derek stands, now that both his sisters have done the same, facing each other from six feet apart. "Drop it."

"Fine. Consider it dropped." Amy stares at Nancy. "He needed to go to rehab," she says, apparently unable to drop it despite her words. "He should have been in an overnight program."

"So now it's my fault." Nancy's voice is brittle, her eyes narrowed.

"That's not what I said." Amy shakes her head. "Jesse's sick, Nancy. He needed help."

"Don't talk to me about my son. He wasn't ready. If we hadn't pushed him to the center, before he was ready, then he wouldn't have been there. He wouldn't have come back to the house and he wouldn't have – driven the girls. And they would be fine!"

"They wouldn't be fine!" Amy throws her hands in the air, frustrated. "Jesse already gave Joy a bloody nose just for telling us about the prescriptions, and you were going to let them keep playing happy families alone in that house!"

The sisters' angry words echo from one cinderblock wall to the other. Derek looks from his mother to his older sisters. Much of what Amy and Nancy are shouting must be news to them, this unraveling of lies, _work on the house,_ and _hit with a stray tennis ball_.

"You don't know anything!" Nancy snaps. "You're a _baby_ , Amy, you've never grown up. You've never had to. But you interfered anyway. I hope you're happy now!"

"Nancy, how can you – "

"Stop it!"

Everyone turns to see their mother is standing now. Her expression is devastated, her voice loud enough that everyone else falls silent.

"Stop it," she repeats. "It's enough!"

"Mom," Amy turns to her. "You didn't see – "

"No." Carolyn shakes her head. "That's not how this works. You have to stop it. Both of you!" she adds when Nancy starts to speak. "I know you two have your … history and I've tried to stay out of it, but you can't _do_ this. Playing what-if, blaming each other. Don't you think I've done it myself? It's madness. It will drive you mad."

She turns to Nancy. "Fine, if you hadn't sent Jesse to that … place, maybe he wouldn't have left it. If he hadn't left it, he couldn't have driven the girls. If they hadn't gotten in the car with him they wouldn't be hurt now …." She turns to encompass the rest of her children, her voice still raised. "Maybe this, maybe that. Maybe if your father hadn't taken his two youngest with him to the store that day he wouldn't have been killed!"

For a moment, there's nothing but silence.

Enough that Derek can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Then their mother exhales audibly. Her voice is almost deathly quiet when she starts to speak again. "And if I hadn't turned around in Civics class that day in junior high school and looked right at a boy with the bluest eyes I'd ever seen … then noneof you would be here. I wouldn't have any of my babies. Or my grandbabies. And I wouldn't change a thing." She's breathing heavily as if she's just run a mile.

"Mom," Liz says quietly, giving Kathleen a nervous glance.

"I wouldn't change a _thing_ ," their mother repeats and then, apparently exhausted by her outburst, she sinks heavily onto the stiff couch. "Not a damned thing." She looks up at her children, who have formed the ring around her they used to when they were small. "Life is long. I always tell you children that, life is long and it's hard and you can't torment each other with these … games. You can't. What's done is done and now we have to live with it."

No one speaks for a moment, the import of her words settling on them like the quilts she'd draw up to their chins at night so many years ago.

"Life is long," Carolyn says once more. "But it's short too, it's so short. We don't get enough time with anyone."

Nancy inhales audibly at this.

"Nancy." Carolyn reaches for her daughter.

"No." Nancy shakes her head, her lips pressed together. "Mom. I don't want to see him. I don't – you don't understand."

Their mother sighs deeply. "There's nothing you can do to Jesse, nothing you can withhold from him, no punishment that will help Joy. All you can do … is be their mother."

"She could die!" Nancy raises her voice.

"She could _live_."

"And if she dies anyway?" Nancy's face is white and rigid. "Life is long, life is short, she's a baby. Don't give me your church _bullshit_ , Mom, don't even think about it. Don't tell me if she goes it's her time, she's fucking twelve years old!"

There's silence; the five siblings, all of whom have seen their mother reach grimly for a bar of Ivory soap for far lesser verbal offenses, wait.

"I can't lose Joy," Nancy whispers. "I can't. Mom …"

Her voice is a plea.

"I know that, sweetheart." Carolyn's eyes are filled with tears. "And I hope to god you don't – that we don't – but we can't tear each other apart in the process."

Wordlessly, finally, Nancy sinks onto the couch – the middle Shepherd child, who has been taller than her mother since she was thirteen, who grew to adult proportions before her emotions had the chance to catch up. Somehow, Carolyn is holding her daughter close despite their difference in size: Nancy's long, angular body is folded against their mother's shorter, broader one, her sharp face with its red-marked cheek pressed into the shoulder where all five of them left their childhood tearstains. Liz and Kathleen who are hovering anxiously to remind her of her recent surgery; Carolyn waves them away with one hand while she rocks Nancy like the child she used to be.

Derek hears Liz crying softly, sees Kathleen squeeze her hand, then link an arm through hers. Amy is standing alone, her arms folded. Cautiously, not quite sure how she'll react, Derek extends a hand. Amy looks at it for a moment like it's foreign, then slips her smaller hand into his.

"You're all my babies," Carolyn says simply when Nancy is quieter, one of her hands still stroking along her daughter's short haircut. Liz takes the cue to sit down next to her sister, helping Nancy sit up. "It doesn't matter how tall or how old you are, or how many of your own babies you have. I'll never stop worrying. You know this," she tells her eldest three. "You're mothers. Derek … you're a father."

He feels Amy's smaller hand tighten within his, like she's about to pull away. Something compels him to tighten his grip.

"Amy," their mother says gently, apparently remembering her, and Derek has one uncomfortable moment when he fears his mother is going to say something to set his younger sister off.

"It's okay," Amy says. "Everyone's a kid until they have their own kids, right?" The shortest of the siblings, her shrug somehow makes her seem even smaller.

"You're not a kid," Carolyn tells her. "I know what you've done for Vivian since Addison got sick. I know you were trying to help Jesse. Nancy knows it too, even if she can't say it."

Their mother's voice is calm, soothing. It's the one, Derek recalls, that she would use when they were sick. Amy had the chicken pox the hot summer after their father died, and Derek found himself guiltily avoiding her. There was something about being alone with his baby sister that made him think of that terrible day. Nancy, he recalls, spent hours reading to her. It was the summer before she left for college.

Being here, in this city, with his siblings and his mother, he can't stop the flow of memories that come back to him. If he can remember a time Nancy loved Amy … surely she can too?

Nancy and Amy are looking at each other – maybe waiting to see who will be the first to speak, maybe daring each other or themselves.

He never finds out, though.

Instead, the door to the family waiting room opens, hallway shadows skittering across the linoleum floor.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Steve says. Meredith is standing next to him, and Derek can only look for a moment at her familiar pale eyes before he has to look away, afraid of what they'll say.

Steve turns to his wife, who is still seated between her mother and Liz, one of her hands in each of theirs. "Nancy … I need you to come with me," he says quietly, extending a hand to her. It's his left: there's a thick gold band visible on the fourth finger.

"What happened?" Nancy asks tremulously.

"It's Joy," he says. "They're going to try to wake her up. It's time."

* * *

 _Thank you so much for reading. I've worn through another keyboard cover with this chapter, so be kind and throw me a review to keep me going. Those of you missing the Sloans, don't worry - they'll be back. Those of you missing Zola, she'll be back from cousinland very soon. I missed her too._

 _Maybe don't judge Nancy too harshly. Jesse did cause the accident, and the extent of Joy's injuries isn't clear yet. Hopefully she has time to sort out her feelings._

 _And to keep us all on the same page: there are probably three chapters left in real time, or four with an interlude, a time jump, and then a postlude. That's the plan._

 _Next up: interlude? Most likely MerDer pre-Zola or the butterfly-effect plane crash. I remain fascinated by the changes to Meredith and Derek's dynamic without the failed reconciliation with Addison, and I think there's a little more left to explore in the context of this story._

 _Thank you again. I truly appreciate the time you give to this story - to read, to review, to remember what's happened before. This site won't let me make a little emoji heart thing, but know that I want to._


	53. INTERLUDE: toward the sun

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews on the previous chapter. I really appreciate them. I put a lot of time and thought into that chapter, and it means a lot to see your responses. I'm so glad people are enjoying this story, because I love writing it.**

 ** _PERHAPS OBVIOUS WARNING: I update whenever I can, but it's not always quite as fast as I would want in an ideal world, and it certainly may not be as fast as you would like in an ideal world._ I am flattered if you want to read more quickly. But such is the real world, and real life. **

**To those of you who review thoughtfully and kindly and with manners, it does not go unnoticed. You are truly appreciated. Cheers.**

 ** _So_ , moving on to this interlude. It's very long, which shouldn't surprise you. It's one I thought about - nay, obsessed about - a lot, which is why it took so long. I have been wanting to do something like this, but it kept feeling not quite right until now. I love that you guys want me to get back to the present timeline and that you're invested in that storyline - I am too - but I hope you will also read and enjoy this interlude. **

* * *

INTERLUDE

 _toward the sun_

...

* * *

"She's so close!"

" _So_ close. She's going to do it."

"You can do it. Zozo, you can do it!"

Their daughter is laughing, waving both arms in the air and then reaching for her mother to get a boost back to her feet.

Meredith kisses her cheek.

"You can do this. Walk to Daddy, Zo. Walk to Daddy!"

Zola grips her mother's hands with her tiny ones and takes a few steps with assistance, then lunges forward over the living room floor toward her father, who scoops her up. "You are the best almost-walker I've ever seen." He kisses both her cheeks. " _And_ you have the best face."

"She really does," Meredith sighs. "Zozo, why are you so adorable?"

"She can't help it," Derek says. "Don't blame the baby."

"I could never blame the baby." Meredith gives Zola both her hands again. "Okay, Zo, you can do this! Walk to Daddy!"

...

There's a moment Derek can still remember in all its sensory glory more than three decades later.

He was twelve years old and he and Mark were straddling the line between child and teen at boy scout camp. After they lowered the flag and had some kind of wholesome evening program, he and Mark and the three other boys their age fulfilled a summer-long pact and snuck out of their humid cabin with its drapey spiderwebs and squeaking metal bunk beds – picked their way across the wood chips and grass amidst a chorus of seething crickets to the dock and finally, incredibly, stripped off their nightclothes and jumped naked into the lake.

The first moment stole his breath – it was cold, it was _fucking cold_ , that's what one of the boys said – not Mark. Maybe Petey Hammer, who had the foulest mouth of all of them. And then he regained his breath and treaded water and everything was dark and still except their quiet splashing. He leaned back in the cradle of the water and the black sky was pierced with stars. There was a whole world that belonged _only to them_ and it was glorious. He ducked under the water and it was cool and clean and rose over his head miraculously.

He remembers feeling so full – of lake water, of marshmallows from the campfire earlier that evening, of the hugeness of the sky – that he didn't have enough room for the _good_ he felt. He was full up on good to the point of bursting. _This is as good as it gets_ , that's what he thought. _This is it._

It was, for many years, the best he'd ever felt. The measurement against which other moments competed. That sheer innocent joy, the wild freedom of the moment. The excitement. The feeling of a _first._ That nothing would ever be the same again.

…

"Let's not go to work," Meredith suggests, sitting back on her heels amidst Zola's scattered toys while early morning light stripes the living room floor. "We'll practice walking instead. Because she's _this_ close and if she takes her first steps at daycare, I'm going to kill myself."

"Zozo, don't listen to Mommy." Derek taps their daughter's tiny nose. She's being a drama queen."

"Mommy is being _descriptive_ , actually, which is good for your language skills," Meredith tells Zola, who is turning her head between both parents, seemingly enjoying the conversation.

"I'm sorry, that's what I meant." Derek draws his face down into serious lines, then makes a silly face at Zola, who laughs and claps her hands.

"She's going to walk today," Meredith warns him on the way to the car.

"Hopefully not until tonight." Derek buckles Zola into her car seat.

" _Hopefully_ doesn't sound very certain," Meredith says, raising an eyebrow and handing their daughter her stuffed octopus for the ride.

…

Derek reads the message from his wife twice before he turns his key in the lock that night.

"Daddy's home!" Meredith calls to Zola, who's bouncing on her knees with glee at the sight of her father.

"My two favorite girls." He kisses them both, then surveys the toy-strewn floor. "Wait. Is she really walking on this?"

"She's not walking!" Meredith looks shocked. "I didn't say she was walking."

"Oh." Derek looks at his blackberry. "You did say she was _closer than this morning_ to her first step."

"She is."

"Ah. My mistake." Derek pockets his blackberry. "How about a demonstration?"

Meredith lifts her chin. "Oh, you can have a demonstration. Zozo, let's show Daddy how close you are. Derek, stay – no, stand over there. We'll come to you."

And his wife proceeds to put one of her fingers in each of their daughter's dimpled hands and let Zola take hesitant but straight steps while Meredith scoots along behind her on her backside.

"See?" Meredith says proudly as they approach Derek. "Even closer to walking!"

"Mm. What if she didn't have the … crab-walker behind her?"

Meredith pretends to glare at him. "Crab-walker. Seriously?"

"No, I like it. You're polishing the floors so nicely with your – "

" – bottom," Meredith finishes for him pointedly, indicating Zola with her eyes.

"That's what I was going to say." Derek drops to the floor, loving Zola's excited reaction when she sees him at her level. "Can you walk to Daddy, Zo?"

She squeals with anticipated glee, stepping toward him while her mother scoots behind her, and she slaps his leg with excitement once she reaches him.

"You did it!"

He lies back on the floor and lets the baby crawl victoriously over his chest, laughing with delight. Meredith is settled cross-legged next to him, laughing at their laughter and Zola reaches out one chubby hand and seizes a lock of her mother's hair, pulling her downward.

"You heard your daughter," Derek teases, and soon the three of them are one puppy pile of indistinguishable limbs.

Is anything better than this?

He is overcome with love, with gratitude. He's swelled up, like that night in the lake, too much joy – wonder in how miraculous life actually was – to say anything at all.

…

Bath time.

It's always a tossup who ends up wettest during Zola's baths. Their daughter is scrubbed clean and glowing, dark eyes dancing in her sweet face, while her parents are a little worse for the wear, bedraggled and soapy.

"Daddy's hair has seen better days," Derek tells Zola solemnly. She stuffs a finger in her mouth and grins at him.

"For Daddy to admit that, it must be really bad," Meredith teases.

"Mommy's hair has also seen better days," Derek adds.

Meredith raises her eyes to see the beginning of wet, straggly hair. "Mommy can admit that."

Zola is looking from one of them to the other like it's the most fascinating tennis match she's ever seen. Then she grabs one of her rubber duckies and slaps it vigorously into the bath, sending an arc of water up to meet both parents.

Meredith is gazing at their daughter with a look of pure love.

After she's wrapped up in her duck-headed towel, cuddled and rocked and read to and sleeping like an angel, she pauses and turns to her husband.

"Zola's perfect."

"Zola's perfect," he agrees.

"Is she – too perfect?"

He looks confused.

"Mer. Are you – saying that you're happy?"

"Yeah, I guess I am."

He kisses her. "That's not a bad diagnosis, you know. Happiness."

"I guess maybe you're right."

"I'm definitely right."

…

"She's sleeping like an angel," Derek says, studying the baby monitor.

Meredith smiles at him. "You mean perfectly?"

"I do." He sets the monitor down.

Meredith is folding Zola's impossible small shirts – already bigger than the ones she wore a month ago, and thinking about when she'll have to replace these.

"Meredith?"

She turns to see him looking at her in that way that can only be described as _Derek_ – that potent combination of wanting her and also knowing the effect he has on her – and damn it if it doesn't work every time. And then his hand is on the bedroom door, locking it.

"This does not mean you're right," she informs him as he pulls her close.

"I don't want to be right," he growls, and she hears a little cry of surprise escape her own mouth as he sweeps her up; she's laughing and he's kissing her neck, he's spreading her on the bed and covering her body with his. "I want this," he says. She arches under him, the sensation of him on top of her sending little fizzes of light past her vision.

Derek Shepherd, her personal fireworks show.

"I want _you_ ," he says.

The seriousness of his tone – it's a promise and a warning all at once – goes straight to the core of her. Her skin is burning where he touches her, begging for touch everywhere else. He must have stripped her sweater over her head. It's gone, at any rate, and she's kissing him too fiercely to ask when he did it. His hands are everywhere now, igniting every part of her.

There's a locked door and a sleeping baby which adds up to the kind of abandon they sometimes have to schedule now. The kind of abandon only he has ever been able to wring out of her. Under his body hers is more sensitive, more limber, more alive; he leaves fingerprints of desire up and down the sides of her. It's primal and wild and tender all at once, the words he whispers in her ear could make her cry if the force of his hips weren't making her scream at the same time.

She marvels at his control – she's certainly lost hers more than once by now – as he waits until he's dragged her over the edge one last time before succumbing to the spasms that overtake her body and his, by proxy of their intense connection.

She's pretty sure she screams his name.

She's pretty sure she's coming apart.

She's pretty sure it's everything she needs.

She's still gasping for air when he pushes her sweaty hair off her face, kisses her cheek, and flops onto his back next to her.

He's grinning when she gathers enough strength to turn her head a little. His curls are damp with perspiration; his chest rising and falling with the waves of what they did.

"Derek."

"Meredith."

 _God,_ the way he looks at her is going to kill her one day.

He's talking again: "That was … ."

"Perfect?" she asks teasingly. Her voice sounds a little throaty to her own ears. She gave up years ago any pretense that he couldn't absolutely destroy her. Couldn't take her apart and put her back together on fire.

"Mm, I guess you win after all." He fumbles for her hand brings it toward him; she thinks he's going to kiss her hand but he doesn't; he presses the flat of it to the damp skin of his chest instead. His heartbeat crowns under her palm, strong and sure. An answering pulse travels down her arm, toward her own heart.

She opens her mouth to tease him back; he's smiling in anticipation but she finds herself suddenly serious instead, tears in her eyes. _I love you,_ she says.

"I love you too." He pauses. "Is it okay if I don't cry about it, though?"

She laughs, a little outraged, and he pulls her into his arms. They fall asleep like that, bodies tangled and breaths moving as one.

...

"Wake up. Derek, wake up."

His eyes open immediately at his wife's urgent tone. Zola. She must be crying.

"Meredith?" He turns to see her leaning over him. "What's wrong?"

"We need to make the bed," she whispers, still with that same urgency.

"We need to – " He sits up fully now. Meredith is wearing a robe, her hair still damp from the shower, holding an armful of what looks like clean sheets. "We need to make the bed. At – " He picks up his watch from the bedside table. "Five twenty-six?"

"Yes, we need to make the bed at five twenty-six." She drops the clean sheets on the bed; he has to pull away quickly to avoid being hit.

"Why do you have to make the bed at five twenty-six?"

"Because in four minutes, the alarm is going to off, and then our baby is going to want to be in the bed."

Derek nods.

"The bed that we defiled last night – stop looking so proud of yourself," she scolds teasingly. He doesn't bother – not when he feels positively peacockish and from the glow surrounding his wife he doesn't think it's undeserved.

"At least put on some pants."

That's fair, so he swings his legs out of bed and plants a kiss on her waiting lips.

"Four minutes, huh?" he asks, checking the time.

"Three minutes now."

"Three minutes. I can do a lot in three minutes."

"Oh, I'm aware." She grins at him; he drags flannel pajama bottoms over his hips and then they strip the bed together and then the alarm goes off and _then_ , even though she can't hear it from her room, Zola wakes up on cue and cries out for attention.

Like clockwork, if _clockwork_ had impossibly long eyelashes and little dimpled hands.

"Just in time," Meredith calls over her shoulder as she heads off to get Zola, and unless he's wrong there's an extra swing in her step too, a little sauciness he'll never get tired of.

And then she's back, with a warm squirming baby in her arms. Zola coos with delight when her mother deposits her on the freshly made bed and then both parents drop down beside her for their beloved – if brief – routine of morning cuddles. Pre-work. Pre-day-care.

Just the three of them.

This morning is a little out of routine, though. Because she's leaving.

"Don't remind me," Meredith groans when he mentions it.

"It's three nights," he reminds her.

"That's if there are no complications."

"There might be no complications." She pushes a lock of hair behind her ears as Zola burrows into her neck. Her hand moves slowly on their daughter's back like she's memorizing the feel of her. "Zola's going to get bigger in three nights."

"I'll take pictures, remember?"

"Not enough pictures." She kisses Zola's face. "Plus, pictures aren't the same."

He can't argue with that, so he just pulls them both into his arms, which Zola seems to find hilarious. They soak up every minute left with the three of them, Meredith reluctantly throwing some clothes in a weekender while Derek plays several rounds of _This Little Piggy_ with an appreciative Zola. Her laughter carries both of them – he can hear her little breathy sounds of anticipation as the game winds toward its final verse, and she shrieks with surprised delight every time.

"Why do you have to be _so_ cute?" Meredith asks, sitting down on the bed again, now in jeans and a sweater. Zola crawls into her lap. "You can't help it, huh? That's your daddy's excuse too."

Derek smirks at this.

Meredith is cuddling their daughter close, kissing the smooth curve of her forehead. She pauses, pursing her lips. "She feels a little warm."

"She does?" Derek leans in to plant his own kiss on Zola's face. Based on their daughter's grin, she approves. "I don't feel it," he says.

"Okay." Meredith looks unconvinced, but she scoops Zola off the bed to start feeding her while Derek, free from little piggy-related obligations, takes the time to get dressed.

…

But apparently Meredith's suspicions about their daughter's health didn't die with their quasi-scientific forehead tests.

"Do you think Zola looks like she's coming down with something?" she asks, staring intently at the smiling figure in her little high chair.

Derek studies their daughter's face. The parts of it he can see among the fields of porridge and strained peaches look merry to him. As if to prove his point, Zola shakes her baby spoon with its plump rubber handle in his direction.

"Da!" she yells happily.

"She seems okay to me."

"I don't know." Meredith props a hand on her hip.

"Meredith." Derek places both his hands on her shoulders, waiting for her to look at him. "You're nervous about leaving her. I get it."

"She looks a little under the weather," Meredith insists.

Derek turns back to Zola, who is humming a little to herself, grinning, and then claps her cereal-spotted hands together with delight.

"She seems to be handling it pretty well," Derek says mildly.

"Derek … ."

"I'll watch her carefully, I promise."

"You might not notice anything," Meredith warns. "It's mother's intuition."

"Mother's intuition?" Derek tilts his head.

"Mother's intuition." Meredith dampens a soft washcloth and starts removing some of the larger deposits of cereal and fruit from Zola's beaming face.

"But she's okay," Derek reminds her.

"I feel like she's not."

"You feel like she's not … but she is." Derek wets his own cloth to deal with Zola's hands; she shrieks with outrage when he cleans them, and he apologizes sincerely for the gall he has to minimize her merry movements.

When she's calm and her shirt is changed – because Zola is more than capable of smashing her breakfast outside the range of even the most cleverly-designed silicone bibs – Derek props her on the sofa to slip on her little shoes.

Zola kicks her feet happily as he does so, waving her impossibly tiny lavender socks in the air.

"You really believe in mother's intuition?" he asks Meredith when she's bundled Zola into her little jacket and hoisted her onto her hip.

She looks a little rueful. "Motherhood makes you weird," she says.

"You're not weird."

"I'm a little weird." She shifts Zola to her other hip. "I was all excited to see her walk and then I started thinking that someday she's not going to let us carry her … and I got all sad."

Derek considers this.

"See? Weird."

"It's not so weird," he assures her. "And she may let us carry her for a long time, you never know. If she takes after her mother," he adds innocently.

"Derek – don't you dare – "

But he's already lifted them both at once, Zola shrieking with delight at one of her favorite games.

"Derek! Put us down." Meredith wraps her arms around his neck despite her words and he laughs down at her, planting a kiss on her lips and one on Zola's cheek.

"What's the magic word?" he asks.

"Oh, we're going to be here a while."

"I'm okay with that."

…

She's not afraid to leave Zola.

There's no one she trusts more in the world than Derek. She has no question in her mind, none at all, that he'll take exceptional care of their daughter. That he would never do anything else or anything less.

That's not why she's standing outside the two-way window leading into the hospital's daycare center, watching Zola wave a colorful block at a redheaded boy who grins at her and hands her a stuffed artichoke. Zola seems to consider this, then hands over the colorful block.

A diplomatic exchange if she's ever seen one. Then Meredith watches as the redheaded boy, who looks around Zola's age, pitches his sturdy little body forward and clambers to his feet. He walks away – that high-stepping, leg-swinging movement of early walkers.

Zola is watching him too.

Then she puts both her small hands flat on the floor.

Meredith holds her breath, pressing her face a little closer.

Inside the daycare center, Zola shifts her weight a bit forward.

Meredith inhales sharply. She could go in. She _should_ go in. Is Zola really about to –

And then she hears a muffled sound from inside, one of the smiling teachers is clapping her hands, and the children are assembling on the carpet. One of the assistants scoops up Zola and gives her a little squeeze as she helps her join the others.

And Meredith exhales.

"The last time I looked so closely through a window was when I heard Denzel Washington was filming at the Belltown Pub."

Meredith turns around, recognizing Bailey's voice – and sees a sardonically lifted eyebrow.

"Zola's about to take her first step," Meredith explains. "And day now. And I'm supposed to leave in an hour for Idaho and I don't want to miss it."

"So you're going to stand here stalking the daycare window for an hour – "

" – charting," Meredith says hastily. She holds up the chart she hasn't glanced at once.

"Charting," Bailey repeats dubiously.

"Charting. So I'm technically working." Meredith taps the chart again for emphasis.

"Since when do you _technically_ do anything?" Bailey asks.

"You're right. I know you're right."

Meredith sighs.

And she remembers that Bailey has a son. A son who once took his first steps. There's no judgment in her familiar face. Sympathy, maybe. Understanding.

"How do you keep from missing things?" Meredith asks quietly.

"You can't," Bailey says. "Not really. You have to believe that you'll be there for the important things. And I know that you will be."

"How do you know that?"

"Because what you're there for will be important."

Meredith considers this as Bailey walks away.

…

"Ma," Zola pronounces from the floor of the gallery.

"Did you steal her from daycare?" Lexie asks, eyes wide.

"It's not stealing when it's your baby," Meredith says firmly.

Lexie doesn't look convinced.

"I missed her," Meredith admits. "Can you blame me?"

"No." Lexie is grinning at the baby. "Zola," she coos.

Zola claps her hands, then attempts to pull herself up on the wall, toward the window overlooking the empty OR below.

"Can you say Lexie?"

Zola grins at her aunt, then grabs a handful of her dark hair.

"Okay, that's – basically the same as saying my name. Except it hurts more. Kind of a lot more." Lexie winces. "I mean it's still very cute, and – okay, fine, keep pulling if you're going to smile like that."

Zola beams.

"Gentle, sweetie." Meredith unfurls her daughter's fist carefully. Zola turns a pink pout her way, her lower lip trembling a little at this interruption of one of her favorite pastimes.

"She's so close to walking. You won't believe it. Watch this." Meredith stands her daughter up on the floor in her little shoes, then lets her grasp one of her mother's fingers in each dimpled little hand.

Zola takes a step, and then another, as Meredith scoots along the floor behind her.

"See?"

"I did see." Lexie tilts her head. "You know they actually pay people to clean the hospital floor."

"Very funny." Meredith scoops Zola up for a kiss. "Your aunt Lexie is hilarious, don't you think, Zozo?"

Zola laughs when her mother tickles her, then squirms into a more comfortable position on her lap.

"She's this close to walking, and I'm leaving." Meredith tips her head back. "She's going to walk while I'm in Idaho."

Meredith pauses to smile at Zola, who is cooing, and coo back to her in response. She kisses her daughter's soft cheek.

"It's just three nights," Lexie says. "Although I really wasn't sure what to pack so my suitcase is maybe for a few more nights than that. But it's just three nights," she adds hastily. "And then we'll be back."

"Zola could be walking by then."

"I hope she waits for you to take her first steps. But I'm still really glad you're going to Idaho." Lexie leans back against the chairs, drawing her legs up. "It won't be nearly as much fun without you."

 _Fun._

Meredith doesn't respond. If you had asked her a year ago how she would feel about being the only two doctors from Seattle Grace on the team undertaking the final surgery on a pair of conjoined twins – well, she would have laughed. Not to mention actually enjoying working with her … sister. It still sounds strange.

"It's a great opportunity," Meredith admits when it seems Lexie is waiting for an answer.

"But you'll miss Zola."

"But I'll miss Zola." Meredith is holding both her daughter's hands again, encouraging her to take a step. "It's not my fault she's so cute."

"It's not her fault either." Lexie is beaming at her niece. "I love it when she laughs. Hey, Zola – " she makes a silly face and Zola laughs again.

"See? I can't leave this level of cuteness," Meredith sighs.

"Derek said he would send pictures," Lexie reminds her.

"He did say he would send pictures. But will he send _enough_ pictures?"

"I don't know, what's enough pictures?"

"A picture every three seconds," another voice interrupts, and Meredith looks up to see Derek smiling down at her from the half-open door to the gallery. Zola squeals excitedly to see her father; he scoops her off Meredith's lap to cover her face with kisses.

"I heard you stole a baby," he tells Meredith, settling on the nearest chair and setting Zola down.

"I didn't steal her," Meredith says with dignity. "And really, Derek, I don't think asking for a lot of pictures is a lot to ask."

"Mer, the words _a lot_ and _ask_ are literally in your request."

She makes a face at her husband, which she can admit isn't much of a comeback, but she can always make up for it later.

"I'm going to send you _a lot_ of pictures," he assures her. "Maybe not a picture every three seconds, but as close as I can get."

"You have to promise."

"I do promise. Zola will remind me if I forget. Right, Zozo?"

Their daughter beams and grabs at his face.

"Maybe she'll take some of the pictures herself. She's very advanced." Derek lifts their daughter up again to kiss her little belly, causing her to shriek with laughter again. "See? That's advanced laughter right there."

"I'm not sure about that."

"I'm with Derek." Lexie grins at her. "I mean – Zola does seem like a prodigy to me."

"I guess you would know," Meredith finds herself smiling back at her.

"We should probably return this little prodigy to daycare," Derek says.

"Do we have to?"

"You're flying out in two and a half hours, so unless Zola's piloting the plane …"

" … we should return her."

…

"How are you doing?" Derek asks as they stand outside the sunny daycare room.

"I'm … a little worried," Meredith admits. Zola is perched on her hip, playing with a strand of her hair.

"About your trip?"

"About everything. Things are … things are too perfect."

"Too perfect." Derek raises an eyebrow. "Too perfect, two days in a row?"

"Right?" Meredith smiles at his expression. "I know, I never thought I would say it either, but … things really do seem to be too perfect." She presses a hand to her mouth. "I said it again."

"This is disturbing. Maybe you're the one with the fever." Derek frowns, pretending to check her temperature with his hand. "Do you need a doctor?"

"A brain surgeon. I need a brain surgeon."

" _That_ is a happy coincidence." He moves his hands to her skull, cupping her face and drawing her in for a kiss. "Initial exam suggests you're going to be just fine."

"That sounds vague."

"Well, I'm off the clock." He grins at her and then pokes Zola gently in her little belly; she giggles in response.

Meredith strokes Zola's cheek, then pauses. "I still think she feels warm."

"Did you take her temperature?"

"No." Meredith shakes her head when he starts to respond. "I can just tell. Derek, what are you – I thought we were dropping her off – "

"Ninety-eight two." Derek shakes the thermometer out a few moments later, Zola beaming up at them from the exam table where she's sitting comfortably with her pudgy little legs stuck straight out. "This baby is not sick, Meredith. She's been sick, but she's not sick now."

"Maybe it's not sickness. Maybe it's … mother's intuition," Meredith insists, her voice trailing off a little.

"Mer." Derek touches her cheek. "If you don't want to leave her, you can admit it."

"You know I don't want to leave her."

"You're right. Let me rephrase. If you want to skip Idaho because you'll miss her too much – "

"I'll admit it. I'm going to miss her too much." Meredith sighs. "But I don't want to let everyone down."

"And it's an amazing surgery," Derek prompts her.

"And it's an amazing surgery." Meredith feels a lump in the pocket of her scrubs and withdraws Zola's little rubber penguin; she waves in her daughter's direction, laughing when her daughter grabs for it with both hands. "And unprecedented cooperation with Mercy West, too."

"You're a regular diplomat." Derek grins at her. "You can't stay home. What if everyone stayed home instead of signing the Treaty of Versailles?"

Zola, meanwhile, is stretching her hand longingly toward the jar of tongue depressors sitting on the shelf.

"That's an … interesting comparison." Meredith relents and hands Zola a tongue depressor; she gives it one experimental lick and passes it to her father.

"Well, I'm an interesting guy." Derek attempts to balance the wooden stick on his nose, which is apparently the funniest thing their Zola has ever seen.

"I can't argue with that. And neither can your daughter."

"Yeah? You think Daddy's interesting, Zozo?" Derek lifts Zola high into the air. She laughs happily and grabs a handful of his hair when he lowers her gently to his chest.

"She definitely thinks your hair is interesting," Meredith says.

"My hair is how I get all the ladies," Derek says seriously. "I'm used to it."

Meredith shakes her head, then looks at her watch. "I guess I should get ready to go."

"It's up to you." Derek touches her hair with his free hand.

"I know. But I committed to it." Meredith sighs.

"Okay, then." Derek holds Zola aloft, tickling her ribs gently as he does so their daughter dissolves in a fit of giggles. "Kiss Zola goodbye. And kiss her daddy too. Non-negotiable."

…

So here's the thing.

Mother's intuition is weird.

But _Mother's Intuition_ is even weirder when you never really had a mother of your own.

Meredith can't ask the woman who gave birth to her why she has an ache in her stomach right now – whether Zola really is coming down with something, or whether she's just anxious about leaving her daughter for three nights.

Derek is right that Zola has been sick in the past. She knows what Zola is like when she's sick. Zola this morning hasn't been Sick Zola.

So does that mean it's not Mother's Intuition?

Is it just Meredith's Nerves?

Or Meredith's dark and twisty coming out to play, turning what should be a major surgical opportunity into a physical pain spearing into her midsection.

 _Just take your suitcase and go._

She lingers, though.

One more kiss for her daughter can't hurt, can it?

It won't change anything.

…

He's in the OR all afternoon.

He can see something happening outside – there's a buzz in the gallery and the interns who were watching take off. Presumably it was an unexpected code.

But he can't be distracted.

 _You haven't heard?_ That's what the resident in the scrub room says.

 _No contact._

 _Missing_.

 _Lost._

He releases the sink pedal and bursts through the door, ripping his cap off as he runs. He's not even sure where he's going. To the daycare? To the car?

 _Mother's Intuition_ , that's what he keeps echoing through his head. She didn't want to go.

He encouraged her.

He pushed her.

Because her career is important, her experience is important, and he doesn't want her held back by motherhood. And because Zola was fine.

Zola _is_ fine.

But Meredith …

 _No contact._

 _Missing._

 _Lost._

He can't breathe. All he can do is run down the hallway, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, and ignore anyone who tries to stop him. He's too shocked to bargain, to call up to the heavens from his foxhole.

He's pounding the last few feet to the daycare center. He needs to see Zola before he does anything else. But when he pushes open the door his knees nearly give way.

"Derek?" Meredith gazes up at him, confused, from where she's playing with Zola on the carpet.

Whole.

Healthy.

 _Fine._

It only takes her a second to look at him before she's at his side, leading him back out the door to the hallway.

"Derek, what happened? Are you okay?"

"Meredith." He reaches a shaking hand out to touch her, still not sure he's real.

"Derek, what's wrong?"

He can't answer. All he can do is grab her, hard enough to lift her off her feet. Drink in the feel of her, how real she is in his arms.

"Derek, please. You're scaring me a little." She pushes on his chest and he releases her enough that she has more movement, though he's not going to let go of her. He's not ever going to let go of her.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"It's okay. Just … talk to me."

"You're here," he says, dazedly. "You're – why are you here?"

"Oh. I couldn't go," she admits. "I know, I know, and I was all ready, I was going to go, but … I didn't. Maybe Mother's Intuition isn't such a racket after all, because Zo's temperature spiked when I went in to kiss her good-bye one more time. She's fine," she adds, maybe seeing his expression. "I took her to Claire, and she thought maybe it was hand, foot and mouth. But it turned out to be a canker sore. So she _is_ okay, but better safe than sorry, right? And you were already scrubbed in so I was going to tell you after – " She stops. "Derek. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm sorry." He pulls her in again for a hug, just absorbing the feel of her and trying to stop his heart from pounding. "Mer. What about the team?"

"The team?"

"You didn't go," he says, relief still jellifying his knees.

"Oh, right. Lexie was pretty mad." Meredith smiles at him. "But I talked up her role as a diplomat, so I think she's going to forgive me. Plus I promised to send Lexie the Zola pictures instead, and no one's going to say no to that. The others understood. Henderson from Mercy West got to go in my place."

He takes her hands in his, making an effort to regulate his breathing.

She stares at him. "You didn't change," she says. "You ran here. Derek, what is it?"

"I'm sorry." He holds her hands when she starts to pull away, her face turning anxious. "Meredith – I have to tell you something."

…

"What do you mean, _lost_? How do you lose a plane?"

"They lost contact." He repeats the words patiently, her reaction the same each time since she got off the phone with the representative from the aviation company.

"That doesn't make sense. You can't just lose contact with a plane."

"Mer … ."

"No." She shakes her head firmly. "This is _not_ what my Intuition meant. That was about Zola. This isn't – that's not what Mother's Intuition is. This is something else. Something worse. Lexie's okay, Derek, she's fine."

He nods.

"Say it."

"She's okay," he repeats, utterly unsure whether he's making it better or worse. Meredith's gaze is too intense for him to look away. Her tone is so certain he could almost believe her.

"She's _fine_ ," Meredith says now, fiercely. "Say it."

"She's fine," he echoes. "Meredith, you need to – "

"She's fine. Zola's fine, and Lexie's fine."

He's running his fingers through her hair, at a loss for words. It feels selfish, ugly, to be so purely grateful that she's here. That she's actually okay.

That she's fine.

She whispers his name and he pulls her in close again, holding her tightly.

"Let's get Zola," he says. "Let's go home."

"No. I need to be here, in case – "

"They'll call us. They'll call us if there's news."

"Yeah. Okay." Her face looks dazed now. "Derek, I should … call my dad." There's a very slight uptick in her inflection at the end of the sentence. A question, waiting for no good answer.

…

They don't go home.

When the call comes, they go to a room at Mercy West that looks unfortunately like where they put the families of patients who've been destroyed beyond repair. Beyond recognition. There are pink curtains and Zola isn't the only child in the room.

People are seeking answers.

People are sharing information – the little they have.

And people are crying.

A woman he doesn't recognize jiggles a crying baby. Two men are standing with their heads bowed. Their Chief of Surgery comes in, clears his throat, and a hush falls over the room.

And then there's a general outcry at his words.

"How can they know so quickly they won't find them?" Meredith asks as soon as the Chief leaves. "This is their _job._ Search and rescue."

"They're still searching," Derek says gently.

"Searching and _retrieving_." Meredith spits out the last word. " _Retrieving_ is just a fancy word for giving up. They're giving up on them, Derek."

He moves in closer, not wanting the others to be upset by her words.

Though it seems foolish to think he can keep _upset_ from this room.

"Planes have turbulence all the time," Meredith whispers now. "They fly over mountains. They fly in snow. They crash and people survive. They crawl out and they break the fuselage and they survive, Derek."

"Meredith – "

"Let's go home," she says abruptly and finally, they do.

…

There will be no separation tonight.

Zola sleeps curled on the couch; Meredith paces the floor like a trapped animal; Derek watches helplessly.

"I should go," she says after a long period of silence. "I should be there. I should be doing something."

"Meredith." He's holding her face between his palms now. "You are extraordinary. I have never questioned that. You're better than most people at most things. But you're not better than trained rescuers at searching uninhabitable mountains in thirty below."

"Retrievers," she says darkly. "Not rescuers."

"Mer…"

"Missing doesn't mean gone," she says. Her tone is heartbreakingly stubborn. "It shouldn't. They may still find them. They may still _rescue_." There's a long pause. "Right?"

He holds her instead of answering, even if she knows that's an answer in and of itself. She grips the fabric of his sweater in both hands but she doesn't cry. She's whispering something he can't quite make out until he bows his head while he cradles hers.

 _She's okay_ , that's what Meredith is saying.

…

She's not.

 _It was quick._

Derek recognizes the words. They're supposed to be comforting. They're supposed to help.

Apparently loss is better when it's fast, when no one gets to say goodbye.

No one asks the people who have to hear it whether it really is comforting.

Whether it helps.

 _It was quick, at least,_ that's what people said when his father was killed. Should he have been comforted? In a haze of gunpowder and the smell of fear and urine, Amy writhing frantically in his arms, was it better because his father didn't _suffer?_

Trick question. He suffered.

They all did.

If the thirty years he's lived without a father have taught him anything, it's that there is no death so quick that no one suffers.

Lexie Grey's is no exception.

Her recovered body is flown back with the others'. News stories remind everyone what a noble mission the team was on. No one says _remains_.

People say, _small planes are dangerous._ The way they say, _always hand over what a robber asks for._ It's a way of making themselves feel better. They want to know it won't happen to them too.

 _I wouldn't fly over the Rockies in a plane like that._

 _I wouldn't refuse to take off my watch with a gun pointed at me._

 _I would never._

 _Never._

 _So it would never happen to me._

It's a farce, because it can happen to anyone.

How can he tuck his daughter into her crib, kiss her sweet sleeping face, when no one is safe?

How can he get on a plane? How can he drive a car? How can he breathe, move, _live_ when he can't protect his family?

Every moment with Meredith he is focused solely on her. Watching her. Listening to her. Supporting her.

In the shower, alone, he berates himself, letting his head fall against the glass.

 _You pushed her to go. You almost lost her. After everything, you almost lost her._

The pounding spray sounds like harsh judgment. Alone he is culpable; he despairs. He pours it into the shower and washes his hands of it so he can be there for his wife.

…

The day of the funeral, she looks in the mirror.

Dark circles under her eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Tired skin.

It's the face of someone who hasn't been sleeping well.

It's the face of someone who has heard _it was quick_. Who has heard _I'm so sorry._ Who has heard _you couldn't have done anything to stop it._

Funereal: an adjective for her face.

If she had been there, it would be her funeral too.

Meredith Grey, cheating death. Meredith Grey, _Mother's Intuition_ and _it's too perfect, everything's too perfect._

It's absurd.

It's wrong.

She's half dressed in the locker room – a blue dress, because black seemed wrong, when her phone buzzes.

 _Derek_ , a part of her whispers. _Tell Derek. He'll want to go with you._

She doesn't.

She goes herself down the walkway to the parking lot.

"Molly." Meredith clears her throat as she approaches the woman who is, genetically speaking, as much of a sister to her as Lexie was. "I'm … I'm so sorry," Meredith says.

"Thank you," Molly says, her voice hoarse and tight. Her eyes, so different in color and shape from Lexie's, are red-rimmed. "I would just really appreciate it if you could, um – if you could not come today."

"Not come." Meredith is confused. "To the funeral, you mean?"

Her gaze slides down to her blue dress.

"It would just be easier," Molly says. "Your presence would be … distracting, that's the thing."

 _Genetically speaking_ , that's all.

"I told – I told Thatcher I was going," Meredith responds woodenly, not sure why she's even saying it.

She finds herself searching the face of the woman in front of her, but she might as well be a stranger.

"Look, I'd rather not involve my dad in this if we don't need to. He's in the car." Molly points toward a nondescript sedan. "With my kids. I'm not trying to be mean, Meredith, I'm really not. This is hard for all of us, and I just think it's better if we limit the funeral to family."

…

"Screw Molly." Derek's face is as angry as she's seen it. He's standing in his office with his hands still at his throat, tying the tie of his dark suit. "Lexie is _your_ sister too, Meredith. She's your family too. Molly doesn't decide who gets to say goodbye to her."

"She's right, though." Meredith picks up a framed photo of Zola absently, running a finger down the glass. "It would be distracting. They don't want to have to explain to everyone who the … stowaway is. The spare."

"Meredith …"

"It's okay."

"It's not." She feels his warm hands on either side of her face. "Meredith, you don't deserve this."

"Neither did Lexie." She sets the frame down. "Remember when I said things were too perfect?" The harsh laugh coming out of her throat doesn't sound like her own.

He doesn't respond, just leans forward and kisses her forehead. It's like the way they tested the baby's temperature, a lifetime ago.

What does he feel when his lips touch her skin?

Is she feverish?

Will she live?

She tastes escape on her tongue. She feels the shape of the phrase _near-miss._ It swirls around her until she chokes on it.

"Mer. Let me take you home."

His voice sounds like it's coming from far away.

"No." She fights her way back to the surface. "It's okay. Really. I'd rather work. Keep busy, you know?"

"You should take a little time," he says. His voice is a soothing lull. "You took the afternoon off anyway."

For a funeral where she's not welcome.

 _Welcome_ and funeral shouldn't go together.

"Why don't you change?" he asks gently, brushing her hair away from her face. "And then we can go home."

 _I've already changed_ , she thinks.

But she lets him take her home and they cuddle Zola in turns and stand under the stream of hot water in the shower once the baby is asleep. Wet in foggy glass she feels almost like she's disappearing.

Is that what it's like to be _missing_?

To be _lost_?

She holds onto Derek, the realest thing she can touch.

…

She wakes up the next morning and stares at the ceiling.

She has a husband and a baby.

She had a sister.

She has none now.

She hollow. Outsides only, like a shadow or a snow angel.

And … she can't get out of bed.

Derek brings Zola to her, lets their sweet laughing baby warm her chilled hands.

 _Mama_ , she says.

Meredith caresses Zola's soft little feet, her tiny toes.

Will she walk today?

Will she stand? Will she fall?

"I can't get out of bed today," she says slowly, testing the words.

"Meredith." He sits down beside her, taking her hand.

"I have a feeling," she whispers. "Don't say it's nothing."

"I won't. It's not nothing."

"The last time I had a _feeling_ , I almost died," she reminds him.

"I know. But not because of your feeling," he says, though his voice sounds a little uncertain, a little foggy. "It was Zola. It was her fever."

Meredith strokes the baby's head. It's cool now. No temperature.

"Stay," she says. "You and Zola too. Stay in bed. People don't die in bed."

"Mer."

But he doesn't protest long. He lies down next to her and Zola snuggles between them.

"I'll call Richard," he says. "I'll tell him you need some time."

"Call from here," Meredith says quietly. "Call from bed."

She closes her eyes.

…

When she opens her eyes, the baby is gone.

Derek is still lying next to her, on his side, propped up on his elbow.

Watching her.

"Hey," he says softly.

She blinks. "Where's Zola?"

"Zola is with Uncle Alex."

"Where?" Meredith's voice slides into panic. They need to be _here._ Where you don't die.

"Here," Derek assures her. "In the living room. On the floor. Because Uncle Alex is apparently extraordinarily good at horsey rides."

Meredith swipes at her eyes, relief thick in her throat. "He can't be better than you are."

"I don't know, Mer. He's pretty talented. And unlike me, he has youth on his side." He leans in and kisses her gently. "Zo's taken care of. Let me take care of you."

"You're going to give me a horsey ride?"

Any other day they'd laugh.

Any other day the laughter would turn into something else.

Today, there's a hot pressure in her throat.

 _Your presence would be … distracting, that's the thing._

Tears slide down her cheeks.

"I was supposed to be on that plane, Derek."

"But you weren't."

"But Lexie was. Because of me."

"Meredith." He's holding her now, her face is pressed into the shoulder of his shirt and he smells clean and familiar. She feels his muscles move underneath her as he speaks. "It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault."

"She wouldn't have been on that plane if not for me."

"She wouldn't have been on that plane if not for a lot of things." His fingers are moving soothingly through her hair. "If the Tavish twins had separated in the womb. If they'd been strong enough to travel back to Seattle Grace. If – "

"I know." She speaks quietly into his shirt.

They hold each other in silence for long moments.

"I want to stay in bed forever," she says after a while. "You, me, Zola."

They're lying back now, Meredith's head resting on his chest so she can't see his expression, but the breath he draws sounds pensive.

"If that would keep us safe, I would agree," he says finally.

The word _safe_ makes her think of the word _fear_ and she's crying again, quieter this time, exhausted. He rocks her for long moments – _you should be at work_ , she says, and _you have a job._ He just strokes her hair. _This is my job right now,_ he says. _This is where I should be._

He draws her a warm bath and brings Zola in to join her. She slaps the water gleefully and makes them both laugh.

They stay in the four walls of the house.

They don't leave.

They stay alive.

…

 _She's plunging into darkened forever, into ice cold never. It tastes like terror in the depressurized cabin where they're flung like broken dolls. They're falling._

 _They fall and fall like the end of a dream where you wake up before you hit the ground._

 _They have to wake up._

 _Wake up!_

 _She's trying to scream but her throat isn't working. She grabs desperate lungfuls of air. She has to scream. She has to warn them before they hit the ground._

 _Wake up, wake up, wake up!_

"Meredith."

She hears a pained moan. That poor person. Whoever it is.

"Mer, wake up. It's okay. Wake up."

She opens her eyes.

She closes her mouth.

It was _her_ moan. Her scream.

Derek's worried face materializes overhead. "There you go," he says quietly. "You're okay. You were having a nightmare. It wasn't real."

She lets him do the thing. She lets him comfort her.

Wipe her face with a cool cloth and bring her water and hold her close, draw circles on her back with a warm hand and whisper in her ear.

Even though he's wrong.

Her nightmare was real. She's just not the one it happened to.

…

She wakes up the next morning with her fingers still entwined in Derek's.

She leaves her bed.

She leaves her house.

This is what you do: you go to work.

You move on.

People will stop saying _it was quick_ , eventually. They'll stop saying _I'm so sorry_ , eventually _._

She braces herself and grits her teeth and pushes past it. She makes it normal.

This is who she is.

That hasn't changed.

…

"Zola's going to take her first steps any minute," the daycare teacher says warmly when Meredith comes to pick her up. "She's been doing a lot of cruising, haven't you, Zola?"

Zola smiles up at her teacher, then raises her arms to Meredith. "Ma," she says.

"Zo," Meredith responds, covering her daughter's little face with kisses. Zola grabs a fistful of her hair happily and presses her face into her mother's neck, then pulls it up again, beaming. It's hard to be sad around Zola's intense, concentrated joy.

Derek drives them home that night, resting a hand on her thigh as they cover silent roads.

"It was never perfect," Meredith says one moonlit moment. "But it was close."

"Yeah?" He squeezes her thigh lightly; he can't look at her when he's driving.

"Maybe too close," she says.

...

Another day, and then another.

Three days.

…

 _Seven days._

"Zola's _this_ close to walking by herself!" It's the other daycare teacher tonight, the more chipper one. Meredith smiles at her although her tone grates a little. Whatever – the under-five set seems to love it, and that's what matters.

"Yeah?" Meredith pretends they haven't been noticing this for weeks. She kneels in front of her daughter. "Did you have a good day today, Zozo?"

" _Ma._ " Zola grabs for her mother's face with two pudgy hands, beaming, and Meredith pulls her close.

"I missed you today," she tells her daughter. "And so did Daddy. Should we go find him?"

She says goodbye to the teacher and hoists Zola to her hip. "I think Daddy's in his office. What do you think?"

Zola babbles in response, holding a strand of her mother's hair in her strong grip while she pats her neck with the other.

"I knew you'd agree." Meredith kisses her daughter's head. "I like when we agree. You and me, we're a team, right, Zo?"

She tickles her daughter's stomach gently as they walk.

"We're a team and teams get out of bed." She's speaking quietly enough that only Zola can hear her. "Even if bed is safer." She presses the elevator button with her free hand. "Plus, Daddy likes when we get out of bed. And go to work. He thinks he can keep us safe here, so it's okay."

Zola is smiling up at her.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't believe him," Meredith says quickly, as Zola reaches for the collar of her shirt, tugging with interest. "I'm just saying he's a lot better at believing that stuff. Maybe he'll teach you how to do it."

On the elevator where she once dropped an armload of charts she holds her daughter close.

She'll get out of bed.

She'll go to work.

But she's never getting on a plane.

And she's never letting Derek or Zola get on one either.

With that thought, she raises her fist to knock.

"Hey, look who's here!" Derek scoops Zola from her arms and swings her over his head, much to her delight.

He leans in to kiss Meredith. "Any cruising update?"

"More cruising," Meredith reports. "More and more and more cruising."

"But no walking."

"No walking yet," she says.

"She'll walk when she's ready," Derek says.

His tone is confident, like he thinks they'll be there when she does.

Meredith leans in and breathes his comforting scent. Maybe some of that confidence will rub off.

…

 _Twelve days_.

Derek drops Zola at daycare after Meredith covers her face with kisses.

They joke about the Cruising Report.

They kiss each other goodbye and she takes the stairs; she has only a few minutes before she needs to scrub in.

…

 _Thirteen days._

There's a plaque on the wall in the lobby dedicated to Lexie and the rest of the team. She can see her reflection in the polished wood.

…

 _Fifteen days._

They talk about a patient over dinner – quick takeout, noodles she doesn't even want, but Zola beats her fists approvingly on the tray of her high chair.

They let the baby loose on the floor for her best cruising. They offer her their hands in place of furniture and Zola laughs merrily when she falls onto them.

It's cold tonight, and they burrow under the covers in long underwear. She feels a little old fashioned, a little old.

He falls asleep first.

…

 _Seventeen days._

Meredith hasn't cried since the day of Lexie's funeral, and she won't.

Zola hasn't walked yet, but she will.

They approach her while she's standing at the nurses' station, her back to them, a stack of charts under her hands.

They say, _we're so sorry to bother you._

They say, _it's just we didn't know what to do._

"With what?" she asks.

"The stuff in her locker. We didn't know what to do with the stuff in her locker."

Cold drains toward her fingers.

"We figured you might want to … ."

She sees them exchange a nervous look.

"But we can – "

"It's fine," she says shortly. "Just show me."

…

"Shepherd."

Derek looks up to see Miranda Bailey, and is about to ask her what she wants when her dark eyes telegraph it's more important than that.

"What do you need?" That's how it comes out instead, and there's a note of fear in his voice even he can hear.

"It's not what I need." She indicates the door with a jerk of her head. "It's Meredith."

…

"Hey."

He doesn't ask for information and she doesn't acknowledge him.

She's sitting small and cross-legged in front of the open locker. There's a photograph of Zola taped to the inside of the door; he has to swallow hard at that.

He crouches down in front of Meredith. Gently, he moves a piece of hair out of her face; she doesn't respond.

She's holding Lexie's sweatshirt in both her hands, stretching the thin fabric.

When she still doesn't respond, he sits down next to her, his back against the cold metal of the lockers.

Meredith's busy hands are moving over the sweatshirt. She's hummingbird fast, she's stronger than she looks. He feels weak when she looks at him. He needs to be strong.

"I'm here," he says.

It's an announcement. Out loud, like a vow. She still doesn't respond.

They sit in silence for long moments, just breathing together.

Then he starts talking.

"When my dad died … my mom was a rock," he says quietly. "She was so strong. She had five kids. Amy was so young and we were all devastated. Lizzie was engaged to be married, Kathy was in college, Nancy and I were still at home and there were bills to pay and things to do and so she was strong."

Meredith doesn't say anything, but he can tell from the set of her shoulders that she's listening to him.

"She handled all of his things, all the – tasks that you have to do when someone dies. The paperwork. The logistics. She went through all his clothes and gave them away or tossed what couldn't be salvaged. Dealt with his den, the business side – everything she had to do. It took time, but she did it, and she didn't fall apart."

Slowly, Meredith lifts her head. "I have no business falling apart," she says. Her voice is hoarse, a little questioning.

"No." Derek shakes his head. "That's not why I'm telling you this."

"Then why?"

"My mother didn't fall apart. Not then. Not in the closet or the den or even the store. And one day about a month after he died she got a call from one of the guys my father used to bowl with." Derek pauses a little, reminiscing. "He was on this – charity bowling league. For years. It was all local business owners and they'd get together and play once a month to raise money for the local Boys & Girls Club. The older kids would place bets and sometimes come and watch. So this guy – I remember who he was," Derek realizes it as he speaks, the memory starting to flow faster. "Ernie Sampson. He and his wife owned a bakery in town. He had a kid in my class. Joey. No, Johnny. He always smelled like fresh bread."

Meredith is still listening.

"Ernie called my mother to say – apparently they had these cubbies at the bowling alley. The guy who owned the alley would play with them too, in these charity games, and he gave them each a cubby for their things. Bowling shoes, these jerseys one of the guys who owned a print shop had made up, things like that. My father had a cubby, and he was letting her know they hadn't touched it, and they were waiting for her to come clear it out whenever she was ready."

Derek closes his eyes for a moment. So many of his memories around the time of his father's death are sounds and smells and tastes and the touch of things, as if he kept his eyes closed and had to rely on his other four senses. The low murmur of visitors who brought casseroles and condolences, the smell of the church – dusty and a little metallic, like gunpowder, the dry crumble of coffee cake when they gathered at the house afterwards, the unfamiliar stiff fabric of the suit he wore.

"She took the three of us with her, on a Sunday before they opened – Nancy, Amy, and me. She didn't like leaving us alone much, right after. Jim, the guy who owned the alley, he was at the funeral. He liked my dad. He gave us free popcorn and let Amy play with the bowling shoes while my mother was dealing with the cubby."

He can feel the leather of the stools where they sat, a metallic disc attached to a bar that made Derek feel like an impostor, a pretend adult. Amy liked twirling around, fast – almost violently – until Nancy made her stop. She whined until Jim gave her a coke with lots of that slushy ice from the machine and then she slurped it all while she stood next to the stool, spinning it with hard whacks of her hand instead of her whole body.

And they waited.

After a while, Amy complained that she had to go to the bathroom, and Nancy took her, and Derek was sitting alone in the empty expanse of the bowling alley. It smelled like a mix of floor polish, popcorn, and sweat, and he was pretty sure he could hear sounds coming from the room where his mother disappeared.

He fidgeted for a few minutes, and then a few more and finally went to investigate.

"She was sitting there in front of the cubby," he tells Meredith now. "She was holding my father's jersey in her hands and she had her face against it." He finds his own face tilting to the side as he tells the story, as if he's pressing his own cheek to fabric that smelled like someone he lost. "And she was crying. Crying out loud, and shaking. I had never seen her like that."

"What did you do?" Meredith asks, looking up at him.

"Nothing." Derek touches her face. "I knew she wouldn't want me to see her like that, so I walked away. I went back to the snack bar and played rock, paper, scissors with Amy to keep her from asking for my mom and just waited until she came out."

Meredith exhales quietly, looking down at the sweatshirt in her hands.

"She kept it together until then. I don't know if it was because it was something small, or having a little distance from it, or the fact that it was unexpected."

"Your mother lost her husband. I didn't – Molly was right that I don't deserve to grieve the way she does."

"Grief isn't about who deserves what. Grief just … is." Derek strokes her hair slowly, letting his hand rest on the tense muscles of her curved back.

Meredith looks down at the sweatshirt again. "I'm being stupid."

"No, you're not. You're sad. You can be sad."

"Molly thinks it's my fault."

"She's wrong. It's not your fault." Derek strokes a hand down her hair again, feeling her start to respond to the slow rhythm of his caresses. "She's wrong, but she has to grieve in her own way too."

"I'm done crying," she warns him. "I'm not going to cry anymore."

He just strokes her hair, waiting patiently.

Then she's crying, and he's never been able to handle her tears. The same way her laugh is somehow more joyous than anyone else's – except maybe their daughter's – her tears are more devastating. He gathers her against him, her small warm body molding to his, and absorbs her tears with the fabric of his scrub top.

The open locker door swings behind them, clanking metal on metal when their entwined bodies brush against it. He buries his face in her hair and rocks her quietly, with no need for words.

The sweatshirt comes home with them that night.

…

 _Nineteen days._

She wakes up before Derek and brings Zola into bed. The baby climbs onto his chest before his eyes open and when they do the love within them is enough to make her heart clench.

They squint into the sun on the way to the car, Zola secure on her hip.

It's getting warmer. The coldest days are behind them.

…

 _Twenty days._

"Hit me with the cruising report," Derek says as soon as he gets home. Zola squeals with joy when she sees him.

He stayed late to deal with unexpected complications on a patient and she takes it as a point of pride that he wasn't so worried about her that he pushed it off on another surgeon.

He is her husband and he is Zola's father and he is a surgeon, and she knows he can be all three of those things simultaneously. Extraordinarily.

"Cruising all day," Meredith reports with a smile. "And your patient?"

"He made it." Derek shrugs out of his coat and toes out of his shoes and joins them on the floor. Zola crawls speedily to his side and thrusts her stuffed caterpillar into his face.

"Da," she says firmly.

"Oh, is this your friend?" Derek kisses her and then when Zola pats her stuffed animal eagerly, he drops a kiss on the caterpillar's smiling face too. Zola tugs on the pocket of her father's shirt with interest, cuddles close for a few breaths and then clambers off his lap to play with her toys.

"Do you think she's really walking in day care, and they're just not telling us?" Meredith asks after a moment, once Zola is settled cross legged in front of her wooden stacking rings and is banging the blue one merrily onto the green one.

"No," Derek says immediately.

"Because that would be cruel," Meredith points out.

"Or kind."

"Kind?" Meredith's eyes widen. "Lying isn't kind."

"It wouldn't be lying. Just – finessing," Derek says, then shakes his head quickly. "I don't think they're doing it, though."

"Really?"

"Truly."

Meredith considers this as Zola babbles cheerily to her stacking rings.

"I asked Bailey," she says to Derek after a moment, "how to be a surgeon but still keep from missing the important moments in your kid's life."

"What did she say?"

"She said you have to believe that _you'll be there for the important things_." Meredith tucks a strand of hair behind her ears. "And when I asked her how she knew that, she said, _because what you're there for will be important._ "

Derek raises his eyebrows. "Bailey is wise," he says.

"Bailey is very wise." Meredith draws her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees. Zola pats her leg, then hands her the colorful stuffed caterpillar. "Thank you, Zo."

Derek squeezes her shoulder, then picks up a rubber dinosaur. "This is a little vicious-looking," he says thoughtfully, studying it. He holds it up for Meredith. "Did it look this vicious when we bought it?"

"Actually, Cristina bought it."

"I should have guessed." Derek waves the dinosaur in Zola's direction. "What do you think, Zo? Is it a friendly dino?" He makes a gentle roaring sound and Zola giggles happily.

"Our daughter is tough," Derek says proudly. "She's not afraid of dinosaurs."

"Which will come in handy if she goes to college in the Mesozoic."

Derek is about to groan at the thought of college – when they can barely separate from their daughter for daycare – when Zola beams and holds both arms up in the air.

"You said _Zo_ ," Derek murmurs to Meredith. "Meso- _Zo_ -ic."

With each repetition, Zola squeals with pleased recognition.

"You are so smart, Zozo." He scoops her up and lifts her over his head, lying back on the rug. "My little paleontologist." She's big enough now that this move rarely results in spontaneous regurgitation, plus it always makes her shriek with delight.

Derek sets the baby down on his lap, and Zola pats her lips in her familiar gesture for a bottle. "You thirsty, sweetie?" He kisses her forehead.

"I'll get her some milk." Meredith stands, stretching her legs.

Zola twists to watch her mother and Derek sets her on her feet, taking her hands. "You want to walk to Mommy?" he asks conversationally. "Hold Daddy's hands and I'll help you."

He rises to his knees so he can follow her.

Meredith turns to smile at them, to hold out her own hands to catch their daughter as Derek starts to release her hands, when –

"Oh my god," she whispers fiercely.

"Oh my god," Derek whispers back.

"Don't say anything."

"Don't _do_ anything."

She's vibrating with the thrill of it.

They say nothing.

They do nothing.

Very slowly, very steadily … Zola stands on her own two feet.

Then lifts one.

And then plunks it down.

Her hands flutter in the air, then stretch toward Meredith.

And in a silence that still sounds like the popping of a champagne bottle – like a ticker tape parade – but somehow more exciting – she takes the four steps between her father and her mother all on her own.

"You did it!" Meredith cries, sinking to her knees to hug her daughter. "Zozo, you walked all by yourself!"

Zola beams, tugging on a handful of her mother's hair.

"You're _such_ a big girl." Derek joins the hug. "No hands, Zo. You did it all by yourself!"

They're talking over each other, words of congratulations and love tumbling out and they're all laughing, including Zola, who claps her hands a few times in celebration too.

Then she wriggles to get free.

"She's doing it again!" Meredith rises to her knees and then her feet, leaning over ready to support Zola – but she makes it back to Derek, who is fumbling for his camera with one hand while hugging Zola with the other.

"She did it!"

"She's walking," Meredith says with wonder. "Derek, she's walking. She's really doing it."

Then she's hugging him hard, hard enough to tip him backwards, which Zola finds hilarious. She's climbing on top of them in a pile of people he loves the most and he just hopes his arms are wide enough to hold them as closely as he wants.

To hold them closely forever, however long _forever_ is.

Meredith is laughing and Zola is laughing and he is laughing and then she's up, walking again, and they're crying out encouragement and Zola is squealing with pride and delight.

The sheer perfection of the moment closes over his head like the cool lake that joyous night at boy scout camp.

 _This is it. This is as good as it gets._

Meredith's hand finds his, squeezing tightly.

Somehow, though, it just keeps getting better.

He squeezes her hand this time, hoping it can somehow communicate everything he's thinking: _Thank you for finding me. Thank you for giving me a chance. Thank you for forgiving me. Thank you for taking the leap into parenting with me. Thank you for staying with me._

He feels humbled, unworthy of the second chance at happiness he was granted.

"Da!" Zola collapses happily into his arms this time. She's beaming up at him, her eyes sparkling.

"You're the best walker I've ever seen." He kisses her cheek. "The best. Can you walk to Mommy?"

"Walk to Mommy, Zozo!" Meredith is kneeling down with her arms spread wide open. "You can do it! Walk to Mommy!"

They keep going.

Over and over, laughing together as she toddles, reaches one parent, laughs merrily, tips over for a hug, and then takes off again.

And again.

And again.

They should be tired of it, but somehow every step tonight feels as exciting as the first.

He thinks maybe … it always will.

…

 _Thirty-four days._

It's warm enough that they don't need coats.

Zola walks down the path to the car on her own two feet.

Slowly but surely, joining her parents with one of her little hands in each of theirs.

"Look, Zozo." Derek points just before they reach the car. "See the flower?"

Their daughter crouches to pat the pretty purple bud poking its head up from the scrubby winter grass.

"It's a crocus," Derek says as Zola smiles up at both her parents. "It means spring is coming."

She'll stop counting after today.

* * *

 _Next chapter we'll be back in the present timeline. I just love the way alternate universes give you a chance to let the real story play out slightly differently - but also the same in a lot of ways. I don't think anything can be more adorable than the way Zola took her first steps on the show, but this is how **this** Zola took them. The plane crash, the exact times - all a little different. As some of you know, my interest in MerDer stems from the later seasons when they adopted Zola, and I started to love their complex bond. My favorite thing about this universe is the different way it started - so close to canon, but without the abandonment of Meredith for Derek to work on his first marriage. I love imagining how many things would be similar/different after that. _

_(There's still so much MerDer backstory to explore, and that's why I'm so glad I'm writing a sequel.)_

 _Whew. Okay, I hope you'll review! I love writing this story no matter what, but I love sharing it with you too - so I hope you'll share your thoughts with me. Thank you!_

 ** _STOP. DO NOT PRESS REVIEW. DO NOT COLLECT $200. First reread what you were about to say in your review. Remember that you are sending said review directly to a human being who has shared countless hours of work with you, and does not work for you. Readers who don't hide behind anonymity, who don't feel entitled to my time, who appreciate the work that goes into this, I thank you. You are why I will update again once the bad taste is out of my mouth._**


	54. you remind me of home

**A/N: I am so sorry for my absence, and so grateful for how encouraging and wonderful you have been during said absence. I couldn't abandon this story if I tried - it takes up too much of my headspace and too much of my hard drive and I am committed to finishing it. It's the longest thing I've ever written, which is saying a lot for this rambler. And yes, I'm still hoping you're as committed to reading it as I am to writing it, because I am looking forward to the rest of this journey with you.**

 **So ... I spent a lot of time on this chapter and going back and forth and feeling like I just couldn't get it the way I wanted. But here it is, and I really hope you enjoy it, and getting back into the present timeline with Meredith, Derek, and the rest of the extended Shepherds. The good news is - the next chapter is almost finished too. So if you wonderful readers are still out there, still reading and enjoying this story, then I will get that chapter finished in the next few days. We're in the home stretch now - three more chapters after this one, and a postlude, and I'm excited to share it with you. Because you're great.**

 **Without further rambling (of the author's note variety), here's chapter 54.**

* * *

 _you remind me of home_ _  
..._

* * *

"Is it going to work?"

Nancy asks him this, an uncharacteristic hitch in her voice, while they ride the elevator side by side. The four of them, like they're about to do battle: Steve, Nancy, Derek, Amy.

In that order.

They're here because of Nancy, because after she put her hand in her husband's and let him pull her to her feet so they could go to their daughter, she turned back, first to Derek and then to Amy.

Beseeching.

So they stand in a row and Derek exchanges a glance with his younger sister before he answers, even though he knows Nancy won't miss it.

He takes a moment, a breath, to focus instead on the smudged metal railing on the elevator, the one digging into the sore muscles of his lower back and propping up his hands.

The everyday mundanity of hospitals still strikes him no matter how much time he spends in them. Every one of them, every same plasticky faux-wood whorls in the elevators, the same blue- or green- or grey-speckled linoleum, the same antiseptic-coffee-sweat smell attendant in the summer. Bleach, from the staff scrubs and patient gowns and sheets. The undernotes might differ: Overly sweet floral. Overly pungent citrus. That no-man's-smell somewhere in between that plunges him back to a hundred resident overnights.

They're all the same.

They're also all different.

And this one … is pregnant with his silence, audible breaths while his older sister waits.

"I hope so," Derek says after a moment.

It's a cop-out, of course. It's a doctor to a patient's family.

But the private exchange he had with Amy on the way from the lounge, when they hung back – _actually, it's probably too early, so don't get your hopes up too much_ – that isn't one he's going to share with Nancy. Both of Joy's parents may have been practicing medicine longer than Derek or Amy – Steve, the anesthesiologist, with more OR time than either surgeon in the elevator.

But they are still her parents.

Which means they stand white-knuckled, hands folded into each other's, and watch.

Derek and Amy exchange another glance as the two attendings at Joy's side – one peds, one not, as befitting her role straddling childhood and adulthood – speak quietly to each other. Derek hears the exchange of numbers, and he knows Amy does too.

Amy is quiet, but Derek can feel her tension next to him, poised like a cat.

Nancy's visible hand is shaking; she doesn't seem like a doctor now. "Don't hurt her," she says in a small voice. There's no sign, though, that they are.

Unfortunately.

Derek and Amy exchange a glance.

Steve is holding onto Nancy with both arms; hers are folded over his.

"No response?"

Derek takes a step closer, sees the very slight gesture of confirmation from the attending.

"It's early." Amy directs her words to Nancy, as Derek braces himself for their sister to snap at her. "It's still early."

But Nancy doesn't reply, Nancy who has a retort for everything, especially when it comes from Amy. She looks numbed now, one of her shaking hands resting inches from Joy's bed.

…

"You know GCS is unreliable in peds," Amy announces in the same stubborn tone she would use as a child – as if asserting the listener's knowledge somehow proved her right: _You know it's your turn to clear the table,_ she'd tell Derek. _You know Mom said I could stay up 'til nine. You know Kathy said I could use her perfume._

"It's less reliable, Amy. It's not _un_ reliable." Derek is working to maintain his patience, but he's been walking through this exact debate with his younger sister since they watched Steve and Nancy leave for Sarah's hospital room.

"Less reliable isn't _reliable_ ," Amy counters.

"Joy's not necessarily pediatric," Derek points out, not for the first time.

"What is she, then?"

"Adolescent," he says.

"Potato, po-tah-to."

"Oh, is that your medical opinion?"

Amy blinks, while Derek draws a deep breath. "Adolescence is a social construct," she says.

Which is rich coming from a perpetual teenager; he says as much, not bothering to dress it up.

"Fine, just forget it." She turns to walk away, then turns back, her ponytail swinging first one way and then the other as if it's as confused as she is. "Look, Derek, you want to think I'm still a teenager, fine, but I actually have some training. A pretty decent amount of training. A seriously – "

"Spare me the details on how _amazing_ you are," he cuts her off, recognizing his irritability is at least half sleeplessness but not really caring in the moment. "This isn't about you."

"No, it's about you, and how you think my medical opinion is meaningless."

"You said meaningless. I didn't."

" _You_ said it without using the word, Derek."

"Amy." He massages his temples. "We haven't slept enough for this."

" _Derek._ All I'm saying is that teenaged … isn't a thing! I don't care when her curfew is, we're talking about twelve years of myelination, not counting fetal development. That's it."

"Fine," he says.

"Fine," she repeats, sounding somewhat uncertain. "Fine?"

"They're monitoring ICP, Amy. We can't know more than we know right now. We have to wait."

"I'm not your resident," she snaps.

"Oh, I'm aware," he says, hearing the clipped tone he knows will annoy Amy and not really caring. "My residents wouldn't need this explained."

Her eyes widen. "You know what? Forget it. I forgot who I was dealing with."

And she's gone.

"What's going on?" Kathleen asks, catching up to the spot where Amy used to be. Derek has to wonder how long she's been listening; Kath has been a keen observer as long as he's known her, even before she obtained the diplomas attesting to it.

But as for her question – what's going on?

 _Oh, just several decades of family dysfunction manifesting as a debate on pediatric myelination limitations in coma scale monitoring._

"Nothing," Derek says, which is … pretty much the same thing, with different words.

…

"Thank you so much for watching her." Meredith's voice is muffled by the incredibly enthusiastic hug Zola is still giving her. It's not like she can complain. She missed her too.

And the silence after Derek left with Amy and Joy's parents was heavy. Sad.

Zola ... is sunny enough to light up even the darkest of rooms, though.

"It was my pleasure," Rick says. He's tall, like most of the Shepherds and in-laws she's met, with an affable round face and an easy manner. "We had fun, didn't we, kids? I've forgotten what it's like to have a little one who still laughs at your jokes."

The teenager next to him rolls her eyes, but her tone is affectionate. "We'd laugh if they were funny, Dad."

Her brother nods in agreement, shaggy dark hair falling into his eyes.

"You see," Rick says to Meredith in a serious tone, "this is what you have to look forward to."

Meredith smiles a little at this, cuddling Zola close as her daughter continues to squeeze her with boa-constrictor-like efficiency.

Rick sends his children on what Meredith can tell is an unnecessary errand before he turns back to her. "Have you heard anything?" he asks quietly.

Meredith glances down at Zola. "The first attempt didn't work," she says.

Kathleen's husband – yeah, Meredith is somewhere between surprised and a little proud that she's grown more fluent in separating all of the many Shepherd strands of names and faces – nods at this, not looking very surprised.

"It's still early," he says, and Meredith nods.

Rick glances at his watch now. "I have patients," he says, sounding a little regretful. "I'm just across town," he adds, "at Midtown Orthopedics, if anything – if anyone needs me. I'll be in the OR this afternoon for just a few hours. I'm going to put the kids on the train first."

The plans float by, neutrally, and Meredith is reminded that another day is beginning. The time that freezes, when you enter a hospital, is passing nonetheless.

"Thanks again," she says to Rick.

"Anytime." He smiles at Zola.

Meredith pats her daughter's little back. "Zozo, you want to say bye to … Uncle Rick?"

He seems pleased and unsurprised by the honorific. _Look at you, Mer, you're basically a Walton at this point._

Zola draws back and gives Rick a sweet smile. "Bye-bye," she says brightly. Then she grasps Meredith's shirt with her little fingers, her face turning solemn. "I _need_ a cookie, Mama," she whispers urgently.

Another day indeed.

…

Derek buys a cup of coffee before he returns to the family lounge, the surgical elixir he's depended on his entire career to calm and energize him in equal measure. His hands shake faintly, reminding him he's no longer the resident who easily stayed up for forty-eight hours straight, running on equal parts adrenaline and ambition.

He is also the father of a toddler who will have a newborn, next year. Sleepless nights will return.

 _Newborn_ reminds him of the twins' birth, that memory he recaptured in the purple teenaged bedroom on the second floor of Nancy's Brooklyn townhouse, the one he recounted to prove to an anxious Joy and Sarah that he had, in fact, been a part of their lives.

It's a decision, like so many, that he questions now, and will question in the future. It is his habit to take apart his own thoughts, to turn them over and process them in his timeframe.

Newborn twins, turned to toddlers, to little girls and then, while he was in Seattle, shooting up to tall almost-teenagers.

Adolescence – whatever it is, whoever defines it – is a double-edged sword. That's what he knows, and that's what he would have told an intern, what he would have expected his resident to know. That a young teenager like Joy has a lower threshold for neurophysiological dysfunction. Because her adolescent brain is more vulnerable. But – it's also more capable of healing. More delicate and more competent all at once.

The human brain has fascinated him since long before he touched his first craniotome. When he distances himself, forgets that the adolescent in question in one he held not long after her birth, a red-faced angry neonate already sporting a head of dark Shepherd hair, the question of what this brain, in particular, will do, is just that. Fascinating.

Distance is key, in medicine.

Distance … doesn't come naturally, to his family of origin.

 _Distance_ is something he may have left behind in Seattle.

He turns the corner.

"Daddy!"

The familiar voice – one of his two favorites – is filled with delight and then he's flooded with joy and then any thought of _distance_ disappears as his daughter hurls her little body into his arms.

"I think somebody missed you," Meredith says teasingly. When Zola finishes her enthusiastic limitation of his oxygen supply and he's covered her little face with sufficient kisses to demonstrate she wasn't the only one missing someone, he shifts his daughter in his arms enough to lean forward and kiss his wife.

Meredith smiles when he draws back. "What was that for?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"You do not need a reason." She touches the side of his face. "How did it go, with – "

His stomach sours a bit. Meredith is the least judgmental person he knows, and it's not that he thinks she would scold him for the breakdown of his conversation with Amy. It's more that he doesn't want to disappoint her – she makes him want to be better, and he can see, albeit grudgingly, that he could have been better with Amy.

"Amy and I … disagreed," he says finally.

"About Joy's prognosis?"

"That too." Derek gives her a brief smile. "There's nothing to do but wait, now."

"I know." Meredith touches his arm. "I remember you telling me that, the first time we worked on a coma patient together."

"You do?"

She nods.

Derek thinks. "Corey Saunders," he says after a moment. "Motorcycle accident on the 405."

Meredith nods again.

There's a silent moment when they both remember how it ended.

"Every patient is different," Meredith says quietly. "Every patient has their own story."

He recognizes his words, the ones he would have told her then, and can see in her expression that she knows it.

"I told an intern that last month," she says.

He blinks. Before he can respond, Zola, apparently tiring of her parents' exclusive conversation, joins in. " _Daddy_." She pats his cheek. "Let's go see the penguins, okay?"

He turns his head to nibble on her fingers, which makes her giggle. He's used to, and charmed by, her non-sequiturs. "The penguins, huh? Where do we find penguins, Zozo?"

"In the place," she says happily. " _And_ we feed them cheese."

"Cheese?"

She nods. "Cheese. And bagels."

Meredith holds her hands in the air at Derek's raised eyebrows. "Don't look at me. I didn't design the penguin menu."

Zola's face brightens to hear the word _penguin,_ and then she wriggles in his arms. "Down?" she suggests hopefully.

Derek kisses one of her soft cheeks. "How about … we go see Grammy first," he suggests.

Emotions play across Zola's expressive little face. Disappointment at being denied immediate penguin access. A flicker of interest at her grandmother's name. An even stronger flicker of interest at what seems to be a recollection of the lollipops his mother carries in her purse.

"…okay," Zola says bravely.

Derek and Meredith exchange an amused look.

…

Zola brightens visibly when she sees her grandmother, who is apparently almost as appealing as a penguin. Derek releases his daughter to his mother's arms with a warning reminder not to lift her. Zola scavenges enthusiastically in Meredith's oversized bag for a board book and places it with great ceremony in her grandmother's lap, settling in for a story.

Across the room that seems equal measures vast and tiny in different ways, Derek and Meredith lean together against the same wall.

"I don't want to keep her here all day," Derek says quietly. "Or you, either," he adds.

Meredith looks at him. "But you'll stay?" she asks.

Derek nods. "They'll check for pain stimuli again in a few hours, assuming no change."

So that's that: they're staying.

…

With a new day are new mundanities: not the industrial materials holding up elevators this time, but the day-to-day routines and appointments and commitments that fall steeply down the priority list when someone is hospitalized. At Liz's request, a numb-voiced Nancy recites a list of contacts her sisters can take off her plate: her assistant, to make the partnership aware; the twins' tennis camp, to let them know they won't be in attendance. Nancy shakes her head vigorously at the thought of alerting her two oldest children to their siblings' current circumstances. "Not yet," she says, and no one pushes her.

The crowd is smaller.

Rick's left for work by now, taking his children with him to send them back to Connecticut where, Derek knows, the housekeeper Kathleen has employed for a decade will be on hand for adult supervision as his teenaged niece and nephew return to some semblance of normal. Liz reminds them quietly that she wasn't planning to return to work until tomorrow.

 _Planning to_ and _tomorrow_. Words often overheard in whispers and anxious hospital conversations, as plans forcibly change with the speed of an accelerating car.

There's a brief conversation between Liz on the one hand and her two youngest on the other, neither of whom wants to leave the hospital yet. He can't help learning, as he's less than a foot away, that Chloe's already finished her obligations as a riding camp counselor, and that Caitlin's not missing anything up at Vassar other than add-drop. Liz gives in, and her daughters head for elevators to relieve their older sister's position at Sarah's bedside.

And as for Derek, Meredith, and Zola?

The bearers of three plane tickets with today's date stamped on them, set to ferry them back across the country?

They're not leaving. Not today.

Derek and Meredith exchange this information quietly, in equal measure, like another set of vows.

He has the sense, as he has so many times when they speak to each other, that they are speaking in one voice.

And he steps out of the room to settle one more logistical piece of the puzzle.

…

Zola, who has been entranced with her grandmother's ability to make train noises, looks up when Derek leaves.

"Where'd Daddy go?" she asks, at her normal and very voluble vocal level. In a room of hushed, funereal murmurs, her audible toddler cheer is even more noticeable.

"He went to make a phone call, Zozo," Meredith says, her own voice quiet, even though she's been a mom long enough now to know that despite what the parenting books say, that never seems to make Zola want to speak more quietly.

"Who is he calling?" Zola bellows with interest, proving his point. "Is he calling Cristina?"

Meredith is amused, a little touched, and files it away to tell Cristina the next time they speak. When she's back in Seattle. When they're back to … their normal.

Carolyn glances at Meredith, her expression suggesting she understands what Derek is doing.

"He's making a work call, Zo. Nothing exciting." Meredith sits down on the plasticky couch next to her daughter. "What are you reading with Grammy?"

"This book," Zola says, easily distracted. "Grammy does _all_ the trains," she adds grandly, pointing to her grandmother.

"Well. Grammy has been doing trains for a long time," Carolyn says, sounding pleased at Zola's description. "Your daddy loved his train books too, when he was little."

"Yeah," Zola says with a tone of soft reminiscence, as if she too is remembering the little boy her father once was. She leans against her grandmother and points to the picture on the current page, which seems to be two locomotives engaged in a conversation amusing enough to make both their metal faces screw up into laughter and puffs of smoke emerge from the top of one.

Meredith finds herself wondering what the joke was; briefly, then, she wonders what her past self, her angry pink-haired self and her hitchhiking-across-Europe self, would think of her now.

They're all made up of past selves, and she and her husband are no exception.

She's met more of Derek's past selves on this trip, during her two weeks: the little boy Carolyn raised and the one who would fish with Mark, the young man she never knew, who forged bonds in medical school that would follow him through his adult life, the intern and then the resident who built his career in a city where he never really felt comfortable. The uncle who watched fourteen children grow up, who played volleyball and whiffle ball and swam with his nieces and nephews. The attending she never met, the one who dressed up for work and had a private practice in Manhattan and a summer house. The marble bathroom, gated community guy, who did a good job taking on those roles until his best friend and his wife betrayed him.

All the guys he was before.

Before he was the guy in the bar.

The guys he had to be ... before he could be hers.

All the Shepherds she's met here in New York have seemed concerned about sharing these parts of Derek's past. As if Meredith wouldn't want to know. As if every part of Derek – including his past – isn't something that she loves. Something that she wants. Something that she chooses, every day, not to live without.

Zola's familiar laugh, like bells and the sweetest sunshine all at once, cuts into her thoughts. "You're _so_ funny, Grammy," she says and Meredith isn't sure which of the Shepherds next to her looks happier at that designation.

She watches grandmother and granddaughter read together for another moment before she sees Derek is the doorway. He nods briefly, telegraphing their change of plans, as she walks over to join him.

"I spoke to Richard." Derek's voice is grim, his tone low. Meredith rests a hand on his arm.

"What did he – "

"He said to take the time we need." Derek pauses. "He said he knows we'll be back."

Carefully, she tips her head against him. It fits perfectly, it always does, but everything feels a little more fragile right now, a little more sensitive.

"I had them switch us to flexible returns. I do want to wait, if we can," he says. "A few more days, at least."

"Of course."

For Joy to improve. Or for Joy to decline.

Meredith rests fully against him now, giving and receiving comfort in equal measure. Before Derek, there was no one like this. Not for her. No exchange of physical sensation that could simultaneously give and take.

This unfamiliar place – this hot, loud jungle of a city – she could never think of it as home. But she is home regardless, as she listens to the steady thumping heartbeat underneath her cheek. Within her, another heart beats, grounding them both.

…

Time passes sticky slow in the family waiting room; as various family members take short leaves to freshen up it starts to smell more of shampoo and less of stale air, and then of swirling black coffee and finally, as breakfast gives way to lunch, savory.

"Has anyone seen Amy?" Kathleen asks at one point. She's been sitting next to Nancy, speaking to her in a voice too low for Meredith to hear even if she wanted to eavesdrop.

"I think she was in with Jesse," Liz says after a moment. "Earlier, anyway."

Meredith sees a flicker in Derek's eyes. She's observed, in the past two weeks, the way Amy seems both so central to the family mythology yet somehow on the outskirts of it at the same time. And she's seen the way that complicated role seems to affect her husband.

"I'm going to go get a cup of coffee," she says, leaving after she's surveyed the gathered family for orders and a token protest from Zola is soothed with paternal cuddles.

She finds Amy in the same viewing room where she and they spoke the last time; Meredith is starting to think that Amy, like her brother, exists in shades of sometimes unpredictable predictability.

Her sister-in-law, a word that's almost starting to seem … normal, after these two weeks in New York, is staring at a series of MRI scans like they hold every answer she needs in a language only she can speak.

Where has she seen that look before?

"Okay … _now_ are you willing to say this qualifies as stalking?" Amy asks, without turning around.

"I'm willing to say it's a little closer." Meredith closes the door behind her.

"And is the coffee for me? Because I can let stalking go if you're going to dress it up with a little bribery."

"Then yes, the coffee is for you." Meredith holds it out.

Amy takes it from her, sniffs it experimentally, as if it's not the most ordinary of hospital paper cups of coffee, then peels back the rim for a sip. "Thanks," she says.

Then they're both quiet, looking at the scans.

"You know they won't diagnose a DAI this early," Amy says, without looking away from the images. "And the waiting diagnoses are the worst. And Derek thinks the shear is – but that doesn't matter. Nancy just wants us to wake Joy up."

She has the tone Meredith has come to associate with her, a kind of defensive bravado, but her voice also shakes slightly on her niece's name, giving away her tense position.

"Nancy knows you can't just wake Joy up," Meredith says quietly.

"Doctor Nancy knows that, sure. But parents – they're all the same, they all want it to be like it is in the movies. Blink, and you're awake, and you're normal." Amy is watching her over the rim of her paper cup of coffee, perhaps waiting for a reaction.

Meredith just nods.

"Well, it's not," Amy says abruptly.

She nods again, aware that Amy is just … talking, that she's having her own comedown from whatever happened in the ICU with Joy, from the disappointment of her not waking up, whatever Nancy's reaction was, and what she's perceiving was a difficult conversation with Derek.

That there's no one else there to listen, not right now.

" _You_ know that," Amy allows. "I know it, but Nancy doesn't. Not now." She pauses. "You know I didn't become a brain surgeon because of my dad?"

It's an entry without preamble and a somewhat backwards one, but Meredith knows Amy's surgical career must have an origin story – they all have one.

So she just nods one more time.

"Because it _should_ be because of him, you know?" Amy is playing with the plastic top of her coffee cup. Meredith has a moment in which she first observes that the fiddling would irritate Nancy, and then finds herself reflecting on her own observation of that fact. Is this what it was like for Derek for so many years? Folded into so many different reaction and interactions that his own responses turned into half-prediction?

"Obviously, there's a neuro aspect to that whole thing," and Amy gestures to her own head, "but I don't actually remember if there was, like … anything left that day." Amy pauses. "Is this too morbid for you?"

"I'm a surgeon," Meredith reminds her neutrally.

"Fair enough." Amy takes a sip of coffee, scrunching her face a bit. "But I said morbid … not graphic."

"Fair enough," Meredith echoes. "But … go on."

"Anyway. My point is, it should be because of him. Because of my dad. The whole, like, noble neurosurgeon thing. Me and Derek. Derek and I, whatever." She looks up at Meredith. "We should have become neurosurgeons so we could save people in his place. And people do wake up. Sometimes, people wake up."

Sometimes, they do.

Amy doesn't continue; she doesn't need to, not really. Sometimes … they don't wake up.

A lot of times.

Amy's gone quiet. Whatever her actual reason for choosing neuro, for being the only sister to become a surgeon, remains elusive.

"People were asking for you," Meredith says finally, carefully. "In the waiting room."

"Asking _for_ me … or asking about me?"

Meredith takes a moment to consider the difference. "I'm going to head back there," that's all she says in response to Amy, "if you want to come with me."

"You know, you're pretty good," Amy says as they fall in step alongside each other.

"Good at what?"

"Just … good." Amy shrugs, tossing her empty coffee cup in an arc toward the nearest trash can. Meredith winces a little, but it makes it in.

…

"First Vivian, now Amy." Derek brushes a lock of hair off her face, pulling her aside once Amy's returned to the family waiting room and taken a seat by Kathleen. "You're just taking in all the strays, aren't you?"

"Maybe they're taking in _me_ ," Meredith suggests lightly.

Derek considers this. "They have good taste, anyway." He pauses, looking a little conflicted. "Is she – okay? Amy? Don't look all … victorious," he adds in a tone of mock-scolding. "She's impossible, Amy. That much hasn't changed. But still."

"She's okay," Meredith says. "I think. And I know you two have a history – " She lets his expression at that term pass. "But, Derek, I think she's … possible."

"You think?"

"Yeah. I really do."

"Well. You probably know her better than I do at this point," Derek says.

Meredith makes a depreciating gesture; she knows Derek well enough to know there's a whole spectrum behind that comments, as much regret as there is disdain, and she accepts all of them together, at once.

As if to agree, she feels pressure from within her. When she looks up, Derek is smiling broadly. "He's kicking?"

"He's kicking." They keep their voices low, and he leans in for a quick kiss.

"You know … you're carrying half a Shepherd." Derek rests a hand on her belly, cupping the very slight swell with a gently possessive grip that makes warmth spread through her.

"Oh, you don't need to remind me of that," Meredith teases, laughing a little when he kisses her. It almost feels normal.

…

" _And_ Chloe has a bag," Zola is narrating gravely, seated on her father's lap. Meredith has offered to join the shifts rotating among Joy, Sarah, and Jesse. Reports drift in: _no change_ for Joy, _resting_ or _restless_ for Sarah, depending; Jesse is uncomfortable, they know this, and that they've called in a consult for the damage to his face. And then it starts all over again.

Meanwhile, with all of her father's attention and no longer concerned with penguins, Zola's cast aside her current board book and taken to regaling Derek with stories of the previous night's sleepover, inspired by Chloe's return from her cousin's room. "And Chloe's bag has _stuff_ in it _._ "

"Stuff, huh?" Derek smiles at his niece, who's now sitting on the edge of the low table in front of the couch. "Chloe, how did you know Zola likes _stuff_?"

"Lucky guess." Chloe is toying with the strap of the aforementioned bag, which looks ordinary and nylon from the outside. She produces a tube of chapstick from within it, sending Zola into paroxysms of delight.

"Can I?" Chloe asks, glancing at Derek. He nods, more out of fear of Zola's reaction if he were to say no than any specific approval of rubbing colored wax on his daughter's already perfect lips.

But Zola is pursing her lips like a champ, beaming as her cousin crouches in front of her to apply a little streak of lip balm.

"Pretty!" Zola says, patting her mouth and then examining her waxy little fingers. "Daddy, look."

He admires her smile and accepts a waxy kiss. Zola snuggles down in his lap, thumping her board with one hand to remind her father to turn the pages.

He's paused between two pages – at what could be considered the climax of a story about two friendly tugboats – listening to the peaceful, sleepy sound of his daughter's breaths.

"Do you think she's going to be okay?" Chloe asks after a moment.

Derek looks up. He'd almost forgotten his niece was there – in his recollection, in the grand tradition of youngest Shepherds, Chloe was often a tagalong at places and times when older siblings might not have been. He studies her for a moment – she's no Amy, that's for certain, and Liz's children have always had a certain … wholesomeness, for lack of a better word. The edge Amy recognized in the twins, the _is it me or are they turning into little –_ seems absent. Whether it's down to Liz's raising her family outside the city or some organic difference between Nancy and Liz or something else entirely … he has no idea.

Chloe is – sixteen, he's fairly sure. Seventeen? She has to fold up her legs to fit in the padded hospital chair, and the thought of Zola that tall, that old, gives him a pang that makes him hold her a little closer.

"Joy, you mean?" he asks, and then feels foolish for clarifying.

Chloe nods, then pauses. "All of them, I guess," she says.

 _All of them._ Good question. He answers some of her question, her somewhere between a doctor, his most familiar role, and an uncle, one he'd almost forgotten before this trip: "They're watching Joy closely. It's going to take some time, to assess."

"You're not going to, like … operate on her, are you?"

Derek shakes his head. "That's only on television. Surgeons don't treat family."

There's another pause in which he imagines a sarcastic comment from Nancy about _family_ , and then feels guilty for it. His sister can retire though, he notes, not without another little stab of guilt: she's set it up efficiently enough that he can anticipate her jabs without her even having to participate.

…

As discreetly as he can, Derek checks his watch.

His sisters seemed to appreciate Meredith's offer to join the rotating shifts, but they didn't seem particularly surprised. Derek supposes there was no question that Rick would join, when he was here, or Cooper had he been able to make it. The three men who married his older sisters have been fixtures in the family for so long; Meredith is the center of _his_ family, of his world, but has spent only two weeks in the heart of his extended family.

But, as Zola snoozes contentedly on his lap, he can't help but worry that she's taken on too much. In her two weeks in Manhattan, Meredith has juggled their toddler with the demanding throng of Shepherds, his mother's illness, her own pregnancy, and then taken on a large bulk of dealing with Mark's troubled little daughter.

He's worried, but he's not. He makes himself tamp down the worry, rather, remembering Meredith's words to him after a runaway Vivian was secured: _Don't say you trust me, Derek. Be you trust me._

He can do that. He believes in her. As he shifts Zola carefully to bring sensation back to his left leg, and she cuddles closer in response, he's flooded with warmth for his baby girl. No, he doesn't doubt Meredith's maternal capabilities. For himself, though … .

Well. Liz is the only Shepherd married to a non-doctor. Not a surgeon in the house. Is that what makes her children well-adjusted? He has to hope not. Kathleen was always a bit of a cipher, and he has to admit he doesn't know her children quite as well. But then psychiatrists' children are notoriously _not_ so well adjusted, aren't they? Evan and Lucy seemed perfectly ordinary at the hospital, or as ordinary as two teenagers can be when a cousin is fighting for her life.

It's hard, and not particularly fair, that the wanting to be a good father and the _knowing_ , those two different parts, don't necessarily coalesce on their own. He can recall vaguely appreciating Cooper's laid-back style, Steve's unflappable calm – though thinking about that now leaves him chilled, so he sets it aside.

Clara is pregnant. This news that came and went so quickly at the news of the car accident – he only has to close his eyes to see the unfolding of another generation. What would his father say? Surely he wouldn't expect to see all of them clumped in a hospital waiting room. He wouldn't know about the rift between Nancy and Amy, the tension between Derek and all of them, the disease that rent its way through first Derek's generation, through Amy, and now the next one.

But doctors, though? Their father probably wouldn't be so surprised at that. Maybe at all five of them, but he knew about Liz. Derek can remember with a faint fizz like old fireworks the excitement in the air when Lizzie was accepted to medical school. Their mother was insistent she not give up on it after their father … not even when they could have used the help.

"Hey."

Derek looks up; Meredith is smiling down at the pair of them, reaching out a hand to touch one of her soft cheeks.

"Hey. How was it?"

"No change," Meredith says.

"Right."

She sits down beside him. "You looked like you were thinking about something."

"I was thinking about my father," he admits. He tests it out; it still tastes a little new each time: honesty. Openness. Despite his academic achievements, he is aware that he is in some ways a slow learner. Slow to share. But he's worked on it, and he'll continue to work on it, if that's what it takes for his family.

Meredith smiles tentatively at him as Zola, still sleeping, seems to sense her mother's presence and whimpers a little, reaching for her. Derek waits for Meredith to shift to a more practical position and then settles their daughter on her lap. Zola cuddles close immediately, gripping her mother's shirt with one little hand.

Derek inhales the scent of his wife's hair – familiar even in this unfamiliar place. Their corner of the family waiting room is private, their own squeaky plastic couch.

Meredith doesn't ask more, _what specifically were you thinking_ , and she doesn't make any demands. He finds himself just sifting through strands of her long hair, soothing himself automatically even as his daughter's audible, peaceful breaths do the same.

"I would've liked my father to meet Zola," he says quietly.

He feels a little foolish saying it – his father would have no conception of Derek beyond a teenaged boy, and here he is skipping thirty-five years into the future.

Meredith leans against him. "That would've been nice," she says after a moment.

"Yeah." Derek strokes the impossibly silky skin of one of Zola's little arms. She's molded so tightly to Meredith it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. "I think he would have liked her."

As if there could be any other response to Zola, but Meredith takes it seriously.

"And you," he admits.

Meredith's head is leaning against his, warm and comforting. "I would have liked that too," she says quietly, as they breathe together.

"And I could … ask him questions," Derek says after another long silence. "If he were here. How to – be a father, that kind of thing." He stops, a little embarrassed.

"You could." Meredith tilts her head back to see him and folds one of her small hands into his. "You've been doing pretty well already, though."

"You think so?"

"No, I know so. You're a natural."

"That's what I told you. In the OR."

"After that first surgery. In the scrub room." Meredith's voice is softly reminiscent. "Then again, maybe you were just trying to …" she pauses, glancing down at the toddler on her lap. "… date me, again."

"No." He shakes his head, marveling, with her banter, at her ability to know when he needs the moment lightened and to help him get there. "Two separate things entirely."

"Since when?"

"Since always." He leans back a little, pulling her closer along with him. "First of all, you _were_ a natural, in that OR. It's a fact. And second of all … I didn't exactly have to try very hard to … date you again."

"Your side of the story." He can't see her face, but her voice is smiling.

Derek smiles at the memory. Zola makes a soft sound in sleep, Meredith comforts her, the sounds perfectly familiar.

"He was so young when he started having kids," Derek says. Meredith nods, easily shifting subjects with him. "I can't even imagine," he admits.

"Having kids that young, you mean?"

"Well, yes." In some ways, being that young at all, which makes him feel a little sad.

"You're not that old," Meredith says, her tone enough to crack in some light, reading what he needs once more.

"Thank you." He kisses the top of her head. "You're contractually obligated to say that, though."

"Am I?"

"You are. I have the forms."

"Oh, right, the forms."

"You signed the forms," he reminds her.

"I did sign the forms." Meredith tilts her head up at him, her eyes soft. "Isn't that why you chose me? To keep you young?"

"Among other reasons, yes."

A myriad reasons for why he chose her. All he knows in this moment, all he needs to know … is that he chose right.

And that it may have been more than thirty years, but he has a feeling his father would still agree, if he could.

* * *

 _To be continued, actually soon this time. And there's a lot coming up - there's still fallout from Steve and Nancy to deal with, three kids' prognoses, and several Sloans out there somewhere. The next few days may go by quickly in Shepherdland. **I'm not going to lie: I would love to hear from you.** Thank you as always for reading and know that I appreciate every single one of you who takes the time to read this story and to share your thoughts with me. I love hearing your thoughts, so review and let me know what they are!_


	55. day by day

**_A/N:_ Okay, guys, I don't blame you if you have some trust issues after my time away from this site, but I said I would update again early this week and it's Monday night, so that's pretty decent, right? Thank you for your reviews on the last chapter. I'm really happy people are still invested in this story. Fifty-five chapters later, I couldn't _un_ -invest if I tried. **

**I hope you enjoy this long chapter.**

* * *

 _day by day_ _  
..._

* * *

The little room smells antiseptic; the lights are dim with that faint buzz attendant to fluorescents. How many rooms like this has he visited in his career, how many bedsides? How many times, like this one, did he pause to let himself dwell on unanswered questions?

While his nephew sleeps restlessly, Derek retraces the steps of his last two weeks in New York.

Was there something he should have done to prevent this? Something he could have done?

He's been stuck on the way the scene in Nancy's Brooklyn living room morbidly presaged the car accident itself: its feeling of both speed and slow motion, the way Jesse slipped through all their fingers and even Joy's injury.

A small sound comes from the bed, and Derek turns.

Amy wasn't kidding about the damage to Jesse's face.

Well. She was facetious, even facile, as Amy is wont to be, but still Derek has a hard time matching the pug nose he associates with his nephew with whatever the result of inevitable cosmetic surgery will produce down the line.

Nancy's son was _very lucky_ , Derek can hear this in whispers in the small room.

The fact that her son also has a discreet but evident plain-clothed guard … is maybe a different kind of luck. Derek knows his sister has secured legal help, and that's not his area. Nor is plastic in particular; he's grateful that only one of Nancy's children requires treatment of the sort he's trained to evaluate.

Derek continues to study his nephew's injured face – _repose_ seems like the wrong word, but the monitors are beeping a steady rhythm of sleep.

He checks his watch. Nancy still hasn't taken a shift with Jesse, he's aware, just as he's aware that no one has quite been up to pushing her on it. Not today.

The sheets rustle; Jesse draws a wet and painful-sounding breath. He blinks swollen lids with some effort.

"Derek?" he creaks.

Family honorifics have no place in this room, maybe, or Jesse's just trying to use as few words as possible. Either way, Derek nods, moving a little closer to the bed.

"Is – did my mom come?" he asks, his voice thick with disuse. It's the same question he asked the one other time Derek came upon him awake. Like the last time, Derek has a hard time deciding on an answer.

"She hates me," Jesse says. His tone is one of self-pity, and half a question, but coming from his violently discolored face, the bandages and tape and splints ... it seems appropriate.

So Derek just shakes his head; it's more politic than agreeing and less of a false promise than protesting verbally.

"Jojo." Jesse's voice cracks. "Is she okay?"

That question is the same too. Derek wonders if his nephew notices he's using his old baby nickname for his sister; Jesse had already grown out of it, working his developing mouth around the tricky vowels of both _Joy_ and _Sarah_ with elementary school precision, by the time Derek left New York.

But neither aspect has him worried about cognitive defects. Jesse's scored fine on every neuro exam: the repetitive nature of his questions … that's normal too.

New normal, post-trauma.

"Her doctors are working to help her," Derek says. He's not sure if there's a better answer he should be providing – _she will be_ , that's too optimistic at this point. _She might not be_ , that's accurate but disturbing. _No one really knows_ – too bleak for the guarded hospital room of a teenaged addict.

He doesn't ask about Sarah; Derek wonders how much of the accident he remembers.

A nurse appears to check his vitals, and then Jesse drifts off again. Derek has the sense that the worst of the withdrawal must be close to finished: his nephew doesn't seem particularly comfortable, but not in the type of discomfort he recalls from his first night. How aware he is of what Steve has been referring to, with a characteristic combination of euphemism and tact, as Next Steps, is not clear either.

"Tell her I'm sorry," Jesse requests hoarsely, waking up somewhat as Derek prepares to leave. He assures his nephew he will, even though he's not certain whether Jesse intended the message for Joy or Nancy. Humorlessly, he's aware that his unconscious niece and his notoriously stubborn sister would probably receive the message in exactly the same way regardless.

…

"No, _me_ ," Zola corrects firmly when Meredith reaches for the elevator button. "My turn."

"I'm so sorry, Zozo, I forgot you're the official elevator operator."

"Yeah." Her daughter beams at this acknowledgement, then presses _down_ with the fervor of a nuclear code. Meredith takes a discreet step backwards before Zola can follow it up with an equally enthusiastic performance on the _up_ button as well; once bitten, twice shy when it comes to Zola and elevators.

She's been bitten more than that, in truth, literally _and_ figuratively, since becoming a mother. That hasn't been the surprise. It's more the marks they leave, both external and internal.

Zola currently has a hand wedged in the collar of Meredith's shirt alternating between breathless chatter and winsome requests for the hospital's biggest draw: ice cream.

Inside the elevator, Meredith shifts her daughter on her hip; Zola's history of occasionally shouting irreverent things in elevators – including, more than once, her latest digestive accomplishment – has never been received with anything except amused tolerance back home, but that's when Meredith is wearing a white coat or a badge, proof that she means no harm.

Here, in casual clothing puckered in her daughter's sweaty little grip, she's just another patient's family.

But one hospital is the same as another to Zola, it seems; she's as comfortable here as she was in MSC, each one containing the familiar aspects she has come to expect: squeaky floors. Her parents. The lure of ice cream in a cafeteria. And delightfully sparkly elevator buttons.

Meredith was comfortable in hospitals too, at Zola's age and far beyond. She found more constancy in the corners of the lounges and offices and cafeterias she'd make her own than she did in whatever house or apartment they lived in.

That's the difference, the one that leaves the deepest mark: it was a house. Or an apartment. Not a home. It left a home-shaped gap in her she let the hospital fill; she can see that easily. Zola, though? Zola is different. Zola has a home, a warm and comfortable one, an attentive and devoted one. The hospital may be a second home for her – there's no avoiding that, not really, not with two surgeon parents – but she's been charmed to see how seamlessly her daughter has fit into one new environment after another in New York: the temporary high rise apartment. Liz's rambling Connecticut house. Even the imposing limestone townhouse where she once turned her sweet, quizzical little face to her older friend to ask where her toys were.

"Ice cream," Zola whispers to her, a barter, and Meredith kisses the tip of her adorable nose.

"Not right now, sweetie."

"But I'm _so hungry_ ," Zola suddenly wails, without preamble, and Meredith feels her cheeks flush as multiple people in the elevator turn disapproving faces to her.

It's hard to believe anyone could think Zola was starving – beyond the glow of health and her round apple cheeks, her cutely protruding belly against the purple and white top her cousins must have selected for her this morning, there's a sticky red trail down the front of that same shirt from the lollipop she scavenged slurpily from her grandmother's purse during storytime.

Starving, indeed.

Zola seems interested in the sudden attention, smiling at the faces directed at her and somehow misses their judgment. "I can swim _all by myself_ ," she tells her new audience proudly, all smiles now, apparently forgetting the grave injustice against her.

It may not be accurate, but it's enough to break the tension in the elevator. A middle-aged woman engages Zola on the topic of her clearly near-Olympic prowess, and even a formerly bored looking teenaged boy looks like he's having trouble fighting a smile.

Zola beams at the attention, then leans her head against Meredith's shoulder. "Ice cream _now_ , Mama?" she suggests hopefully, looking up at her mother through impossibly long lashes.

…

Derek's nieces are entertaining Zola when he gets back to the family lounge, Meredith looking on.

His wife smiles at him when he approaches. She looks … resilient, even unbothered, but can't help but feel guilty: she's here for him. This whole trip was, after a fashion, Meredith's idea, but she didn't sign on for the numerous additional tasks that have grown out of their original mission. Nor did she sign on to stay longer than their original two weeks. Richard may have immediately okayed a few more days of leave, and Derek may be staying on top of what he can remotely, but still feels a pang. They could be finalizing their packing. They could be flying out, tonight.

Instead … well.

"Your daughter has already cheered up one elevator," Meredith tells him.

"You've been busy, Zozo," Derek remarks as his daughter flings herself at his legs in greeting. He scoops her up for a kiss and then deposits her back on the squeaking couch where she's been piecing together a slightly chewed puzzle with the older girls. "And this place could use some cheer."

"Yeah, she could be like those dogs they bring to hospitals to cheer patients up," Chloe suggests.

Caitlin frowns. "Zola isn't a _dog._ "

"I knew what you meant," Meredith tells Chloe.

A strained-looking Nancy stops in the waiting room then to update her siblings, flanked by Steve on one side and Amy on the other, which would be somewhat strange either way. Steve is, as he has been since the night before, seems to be avoiding direct eye contact with the Shepherd siblings.

It takes only one exhale for Meredith to notice this, as Derek watches; he sees her gaze skim over Nancy but makeup has covered any evidence of yesterday's events. If Meredith were looking for it, if Nancy were her patient, Derek is certain she would notice. As it is, he hasn't been able to bring himself to tell her.

"He's alive," Nancy says without preamble.

Liz, who is on her feet now, glances from her daughters – still entertaining Zola – to Nancy. She moves a few steps aside, the older sister encouraging the others to follow the leader. When they've all obtained some distance, she asks: "The – the other boy, you mean? He's alive?"

Nancy nods. "He lost a leg. Amputated below the knee." She's delivering the news quietly, clinically, but her face is a giveaway shade of grey. "But he's alive."

"Good." Derek exchanges a glance with Liz. "That's good."

Nancy's knuckles are white on Steve's arm. Derek sees him exchange a glance with Amy, perhaps the only Shepherd he's comfortable looking at right now. Derek isn't surprised, not really, although he's not certain how much of what happened Amy knows. Certainly he didn't tell her himself, for far different reasons from why he hasn't updated Meredith. Then again, Amy's always had her own magpie ways of finding information.

Nancy inhales audibly. "They're taking Jesse," she continues.

"Taking him where?" Liz asks.

Derek doesn't recognize the name. "Rehab," he guesses, a little confused. "Rehab?" he confirms.

Nancy nods.

"So he's not – "

"It's a good place," Amy says, interrupting. Her voice is somewhere south of the other siblings', as always; being the shortest and the youngest at once was her indignant cross to bear for years.

"He'll still have to be – there's a special processing. You know, so he can avoid …." Nancy's voice trails off; if she's aware she hasn't finished either sentence, she makes no sign of it.

But at least he didn't kill anyone.

Low bar, but … it's something. Amy, her chin tilted up to see her older sister, seems to be thinking along the same lines.

"When?" Derek asks.

"Tomorrow." Steve's hand is folded over Nancy's where it rests on his arm. "His doctors want to keep him one more night. He'll need another procedure, down the line. Maybe two."

Nancy winces a bit at the word _procedure_.

"Have you seen – " Liz starts to ask and Derek sees Amy shake her head almost imperceptibly. Amy, who never met a controversial topic she wouldn't raise, suddenly censoring peacemaking Liz? The world is upside down for a moment and then they move on as if it didn't happen.

 _Because that always works so well._

"He's stable," Liz prompts instead.

Nancy nods. "We just spoke with his attending. Well, the lawyers were here, and … ." Her voice trails off. "He's arranged for a consult from someone he trusts, with adolescent specialty," she continues woodenly. "Steve knows him."

"The consult?"

"No, the attending." Steve clears his throat a little. "Cranberg. We worked together at Presbyterian and the consult is someone he recommends. Highly."

Derek glances over his shoulder automatically, where Zola is giggling in the care of her cousins. They're maybe a dozen feet away, but in a different world. A much more peaceful one, a much less complex one.

"We're going back to check on Joy," Nancy says. "We just wanted to – update you."

"Nancy." Liz's voice is gentle. "Have you given any more thought to calling Sean and Emma?"

Nancy shakes her head, her lips pressed together, at the names of her two oldest children. "No. Not yet."

Liz exchanges a glance with Derek. He is reminded that his older sister, even with her rather Rockwellian family practice in rural Connecticut, is still at her core a physician. And "not yet" is a dangerous concept in medicine.

…

"What was that about?"

Derek doesn't ask _what was what about._ He doesn't obfuscate or buy time, not in this marriage. Not when he knows what she means. "Steve and Nancy," he confirms.

Meredith nods.

Drawing her gently aside while Liz is occupied on the phone with a patient and her daughters watch Zola, Derek fills her in.

Meredith shakes her head a little, taking in the story without verbal judgment.

"My mother doesn't know." How many times has Derek said those words over the years? First for regular childhood and adolescent escapades, the kind with two parents, hiding his sisters' curfew violations and his and Mark's boyish pranks – and then, later, when they only had their mother, hiding things that might upset her.

"No one told her?" Meredith asks, confirming, and Derek takes a moment to consider the difference. The nuance. Which is very like his wife.

"No one told her," he acknowledges, "but it was more … visible, this morning, when my mother first got here." Nancy must have _freshened up_ since then, that euphemism his older sisters were always using when they traipsed off to the ladies' room together. They used to put makeup on each other, he remembers, when they were teenagers. He only has to close his eyes for a blink to summon a gangly teenaged Nancy seated on the closed toilet of the sole second-floor bathroom, hugging bony knees, face tilted up under the lights so Kathy or Liz could swipe powder over her cheeks or shadow across her lids. The idea of something similar this morning in a fluorescent-lit hospital bathroom leaves him distinctly uncomfortable. Did Nancy do it herself? She was the most likely of his three older sisters to carry an arsenal of makeup with her, in her omnipresent oversized bags that often looked like they weighed more than she did. Or was it Liz, or Kathleen before she left?

Even in the same hospital where three of the Byrne children are injured, the thought of one of his other sisters covering the mark on Nancy's face makes him inescapably sad.

Meredith wraps her arms around his waist, leaning up to see his face.

"He's always been so patient," Derek says, knowing that's meaningless, that in a hospital not only is _not yet_ a dangerous concept but _never happened before_ doesn't do much to protect against _happened this time._

They stand together for another moment, drawing strength from each other, and then their daughter's sweetly victorious bellow from across the room interrupts them: "I did it!"

Derek thanks his nieces for watching Zola. They wave him off, clearly enjoying the time with their new younger cousin.

…

Derek is on his way for the next of what he's come to think of as his shifts, checking on Jesse before the adolescent consult arrives, half his attention on the blackberry he never really intends to check in direct transit and the other half on how much he's looking forward to returning to his family's side.

"Derek?"

He looks up at his name, confused.

It's … Mark?

Here, at Central-Hamilton, utterly out of context, it's the thin and greyed version of Mark who has stopped surprising him now after two long weeks in the city.

He's holding his daughter by the hand. Derek's quick once-over of the child shows long hair gathered into a messy ponytail, ever-present flip flops. The tape on her little toes looks white and clean; someone must have changed it. Viv looks up at him with some measure of suspicion and Derek sees her small hand tighten on her father's, perhaps wondering if she's about to be handed over for more baby-sitting.

"Hey." Mark looks genuinely surprised.

"…hey." Derek shoves his hands in his pockets for lack of anything better to do with them. "What are you doing here?" he asks before Mark can.

As a group they step back to let others pass.

"Just a consult. A quick one." He follows Derek's gaze down to the child holding his hand. "What, you haven't seen an intern lately? They get younger every year."

Derek smiles a little bit at this. _Just a consult_ – and it slides into place even as Viv continues to squint up at him suspiciously. He can't bring himself to identify the connection, not yet. Not when Mark looks unquestionably tired but there's something lighter in his step, in his voice even. They may be many steps from _okay_ , but the reflection of doing something – anything at all – shows.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Mark counters, looking around, then lowers his voice. "Your mom's okay, right?"

"She's fine." Derek glances down at Viv, then back at Mark, the kind of wordless communication he would have said two weeks ago was only in the past for the man who was his best friend in another life.

Mark nods almost imperceptibly.

Viv is looking up at him with some measure of interest, clearly attuned to the conversation. Derek can tell Mark is still curious – perhaps even more so – about why they're talking in yet another Manhattan hospital hallway, and he can't blame him.

But he's not going to say it now, not in front of Vivian. He has a fleeting memory of Clara's wedding, years ago – pre-disaster, pre-Amy, Nancy's twins, who must have been around nine years old, chasing a toddler Vivian up and down the beach … all three of those children untouched by the tragedies that would come in the following years.

"Hey, look who's coming," Mark says abruptly, sounding relieved; he's pointing with his free hand to direct Viv, and Derek follows their gaze to a young woman in scrubs approaching from the elevator with a broad smile.

"I ran a study out of here last year," Mark tells Derek by way of explanation, "so Viv knows a bunch of the team. Right?" He nudges his daughter lightly with his knee when she doesn't respond.

Vivian looks up at him. "Is Serena coming too?" she asks; it's the first she's spoken and Derek has almost forgotten the husky quality of her voice.

An expression flits across Mark's face that Derek can't quite identify.

"I don't know, baby, I guess we'll find out."

"Vivian!" The woman in scrubs, whose tag identifies her as an R.N., beams once she reaches their side. " _Look_ how tall you got," she says, sounding pleased.

Viv looks at Mark, who nods, and she trots off with the nurse. Derek can hear them talking as they walk away together, but no words in particular.

Mark watches them go. "I can't leave her with just anyone," he says, sounding a little defensive, though Derek didn't ask, "not when she's basically on the FBI's most wanted list. She won't stay with the nanny. Addison's not in any position to watch her."

"Of course." Derek gets the sense Mark just wants some kind of agreement, and he's willing to offer it. He's about to ask Mark how Addison is doing when he starts talking again.

"And Amy's … busy." Mark looks at Derek, then past him down the hall. "She's busy with something."

Derek is aware Amy keeps everyone on a need to know basis, even the Sloans. He has no idea what she has or hasn't told Mark.

"I haven't been working," he continues. "But Cranberg … you know, he took patients from me, not just now but a couple years ago, when we had – when I needed him to. I figured one consult was the least I could do."

Derek just nods. And then Mark is talking again, before Derek can make the connections for him.

"You're here," Mark says. "You're here, and Amy's busy. What's going on?"

Derek has thought many things of Mark over the years, adjectives both printable and less so, but he's never denied that his former best friend was smart. Now he watches the other man put the pieces together, blurry though they are.

"It's one of the kids," Mark says quietly. "It's one of the kids?" The second time, there's a question mark, and Derek nods. Another moment, another exchange of glances, and Mark draws sharp breath. It's a full hospital, but – "Cranberg said the patient was driving …. "

Derek glances up the hall – for what, he's not sure. "It's Nancy's son. Jesse," he says quietly.

"Jesse." Mark exhales heavily. " _Jesse_. Really? I'm sorry." He pauses. "Jesse's old enough to drive?"

"No," Derek says. "But he was driving anyway. And he took his little sisters with him."

Mark shakes his head. "What about the girls?"

Derek glances down the hall again, not really sure why, before he answers. "Sarah's fine. Her injuries are very minor. Joy … hasn't regained consciousness. Yet."

"And Jesse was driving?"

"Jesse was driving."

There's a quiet moment where Derek is fairly certain they're both recalling Amy's teenaged years.

Mark shakes his head again, looking grim. "I had no idea. Cranberg hasn't given me the file yet, just asked me to come by. The kids have their dad's name, anyway, right?" Mark rubs his jaw. "No reason for Cranberg to make the connection either way, I guess," he amends, seeming to be thinking aloud. He pauses. "You want me to tell him no? I'm not sure Nancy would be thrilled about my consulting on her kid."

"Nancy wants the consult," Derek says. "Cranberg told her you were coming – not in so many words – but I got the sense the words were … pretty complimentary."

Mark is about as good at looking modest as Derek himself is, when it comes to surgical skills. So he can't really judge.

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it," Derek continues. "And she seemed happy to see you the other day." He pauses, considering his wording. It's still Nancy. "It's not like she hates you."

"Nancy … hates me when it's convenient," Mark says. He glances at Derek. "You probably don't want me to explain that."

"I probably don't."

Both men are silent for a moment.

"I've done some adolescent specialization the last couple of years," Mark says, perhaps thinking Derek wants more justification for his presence.

It's another reminder of how strange these two weeks have been. Derek has gone from not speaking in any real way to Mark for half a decade to tasks more intimate than he ever would have expected: rooting in Mark's closet for clean clothes to bring to the hospital. Witnessing the spent carcasses of Mark's family life throughout his abandoned townhouse. Caring for Mark's daughter while she grieved the absence of her parents.

But the one way they haven't caught up is professionally. So he just nods, and agrees to give Nancy the heads-up it seems will make Mark feel more comfortable.

…

If Nancy has eaten anything today, Derek hasn't witnessed it, and he's spent significant portions of the day in his sister's presence. Certainly more time than he's spent with her in more years than he can count. She's understandably tense and distracted, but the normal base level of aggression he came to identify with her during their shared childhood seems to have winnowed away to numb silence.

Which is why, he assumes, her reaction to Mark's identity as the sought-after consult is as muted as the rest of her.

She doesn't even take the bait of Amy's presence; Derek notices that Steve, while characteristically solicitous of his wife, hasn't pushed her at all. Liz finally intervenes, convincing Nancy to stop by the cafeteria on the ruse of picking up snacks to tempt Sarah.

Meredith and Zola follow with Derek's mother, the word _snacks_ too much for their daughter to resist. There's a playroom near the cafeteria she'll consider checking out as well.

It's just Derek, Steve, and Amy waiting now. His brother-in-law doesn't seem to be able to meet his eye; Derek can't really blame him. He reminds himself that Steve is going through everything Nancy is. That just because he usually seems to cope flawlessly with … just about everything doesn't mean he always will. That no one can.

By the time Mark stops in to update them, Amy has left too, in search of coffee.

Derek finds himself staring; he hasn't seen the other man in scrubs since he left New York the first time. Like everything else Mark has worn, they make no secret of his rather diminished frame, but there's something familiar about the navy top and pants anyway, reminding Derek of their shared professional past.

"It could be a lot worse," Mark says. "Airbag without a seatbelt … sometimes it's better than nothing, sometimes it's worse than nothing. He'll benefit from some reconstruction down the line, but you're better off waiting a few months."

He mentions several options, taking them step by step and sounding like the competent surgeon Derek remembers and not the pained husband and father he's been the last two weeks.

"Thank you." Steve is shaking Mark's hand with something like warmth. "We really appreciate your doing this."

"Any time." Mark glances around the room. "Nancy here?"

"Liz took her to get some food," Derek says.

"I can wait," Mark offers, which Derek thinks is kind considering the many demands on the other man's time.

But he doesn't have to wait long; Nancy returns with Liz moments later as if summoned. Derek's oldest sister looks troubled – possibly from whatever they discussed while she convinced Nancy to eat, possibly for some other reason, but he never gets a chance to ask because Liz and Nancy are greeting Mark … and then the air in the room changes.

"What happened to your face?" Mark asks.

That's when Derek notices that the makeup that was covering the red stain on Nancy's cheek seems to have worn off.

Nancy doesn't say anything.

Derek and Liz exchange a glance.

Steve looks uncomfortable.

Derek is aware that no plastic surgeon with Mark's training would identify the reddened patch on Nancy's cheek as originating anywhere but the palm of someone's hand. They're taught to work backwards from marks like these. Marks like these tell a story, that's what the chief would have said when they were interns.

Mark looks curious for a moment, concerned. Then his eyes meet Steve's.

Derek sees the moment he figures it out and the room seems to freeze. "Mark – "

It's too late. Mark has grabbed a handful of Steve's shirt and shoved him against the nearest wall, ignoring Nancy's pleas for him to stop.

Derek is silently grateful that all the younger Shepherds are out of the room; the Mark he knew might have reacted differently in front of the children but then he's never known Mark under the kind of strain he's faced the last few months.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" Mark shoves Steve again, while Nancy hovers at his elbow, looking miserable.

"Mark, stop," she pleads. "It was a misunderstanding. _Stop._ "

"It's okay, Nancy." Steve's voice is slightly muffled, but still conciliatory.

Nancy turns to Derek, her eyes beseeching. "Do something," she breathes.

Derek moves to get between them. "Mark, let him go."

"Fine." Mark releases his shirt with one last shove and Steve ducks away from him, his face flushed, saying nothing in his own defense.

" _Thank_ you," Nancy says, sounding huffy rather than grateful. "Honestly, you'd think you were still a teenager, Mark. Grow up."

Mark rubs his jaw for a moment, looking thoughtful.

"One more thing," he says.

Steve looks up, and before Derek can intercede Mark has backhanded him, hard – hard enough to knock him sideways, sending him stumbling into the same beige plaster wall where Mark shoved him earlier.

"Steve!" Nancy cries, panicked, rushing to his side.

"Mark." Derek shakes his head as Mark ambles toward him. "Your hand …."

"Yeah … I probably shouldn't have done that," Mark admits, flexing his hand and wincing a little. "He has a hard head."

They speak in lowered voices, half a room away from Nancy and Steve.

"Can you believe it?" Derek asks.

Mark shrugs a little. "It's always the quiet ones."

Derek raises an eyebrow.

"Long fuse," Mark clarifies, "doesn't mean no fuse. And she can try anyone's patience."

"Whose side are you on?"

"There are no sides," Mark points out reasonably, "those two aren't going to be anything but glued together anytime soon." He checks his watch. "Okay, I'm going to get – "

"Mark!"

They turn; Nancy is stalking toward them.

"You had _no_ right," she says, her voice shaking. Her hands are on her hips, and she sounds much more like herself now, whether it's whatever sustenance Liz coerced her to eat or the adrenaline of the fight. Derek notes that Steve, who has his hand on Nancy's shoulder, is now sporting a blossoming bruise on his cheekbone.

"Leave it, Nance," Steve says quietly, but she ignores him.

"I know I didn't have the right," Mark says, not sounding bothered. "But neither did he."

Steve doesn't object; Nancy exhales angrily.

"You don't know anything. Not a thing. _You_ are going to lecture me on marriage, Mark Sloan, after what you did! As if you have any idea – how _dare_ you," she hisses without finishing her sentence.

Mark just shakes his head, looking untroubled. "Yeah, I already know what you think of us, Nancy. We're terrible people. Fine. I'm an asshole, fine. At least I've never hit her." He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Low bar, though, huh?"

"Oh, you're such a pacifist," Nancy taunts angrily, her eyes narrowed to slits, "that you would attack Steve when he hasn't done anything to you, when our children are here and we don't even know –"

Her voice breaks then and Derek sees Mark shift, his big shoulders slumping forward a little as if he's very tired.

"I'm sorry," Mark says quietly, "about Joy. And Jess and Sarah. Truly. But I'm not sorry about Steve. Not today, anyway. Take care, Nancy."

He's out the door before she can respond.

With one last glance at his sister and brother-in-law, Liz standing oldest-sister sentry a few feet away, Derek follows Mark out the door.

…

"That was quite a show," Derek says when he catches up to Mark, who's leaning against the wall near the main lobby, massaging the knuckles of his right hand.

"You know me, I always like to make an impression." Mark's voice has bravado, but his eyes look dark.

Derek wonders how much Nancy's comment about the uncertainty of hospitalization has gotten to him.

"You should put some ice on that," Derek says, glancing at the other man's hand.

Mark shrugs.

"What happened to not hitting someone who's not going to hit you back?" he can help asking, though his tone is mild.

"Oh … that." Mark flexes his knuckles again. "Well, he already got his in before I was on the scene. Plus, he could have hit me back. An anesthesiologist doesn't actually need his hands, does he?"

They exchange a glance that, coupled with Mark's scrubs, brings Derek back a decade or more to their shared surgical careers, the intertwined arrogance of rising stars. Mark smirks like he would have cracking that joke ten years ago, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

His eyes look bleak.

They stand like that under fluorescent lights, Mark massaging his knuckles, as people pass them by: clusters of doctors and nurses in scrubs and coats, carrying charts and coffee and deep in conversation; rolling wheelchairs; visitors from the outside smelling of sweat and sunshine and occasionally lurid odors of takeout food in boxes.

"How's the hand now?" Derek asks finally, gesturing.

" …throbbing," Mark admits. "But overall – I feel pretty good." He studies his knuckles for a moment.

"Because of – " Derek gestures vaguely toward the family waiting room.

"That too." Mark tilts his head a little bit.

It's heartening enough that Derek feels he can ask. "How's Addison?"

"She's hanging in there," Mark says. There's a light in his eyes now that wasn't there before. "She's in and out a little," he amends. "You know. She's tough but she's human. Just because she wouldn't take a general doesn't mean she can stop her vitals from reacting to pain." He pauses. "But … she's stable. The baby too. And, you know … day by day."

 _Like your mom used to say_ , he doesn't have to clarify.

Derek glances down the hall first to confirm the little girl isn't within earshot. "And Viv?"

"Good as gold when she's with her mom. A holy terror otherwise." Mark's tone is fond, though. "And I think she misses Zola. I haven't broken it to her that you guys are leaving." He pauses. "Wait. When _are_ you leaving?"

"Unclear." Derek doesn't say, _waiting to see if Joy pulls through_ , but Mark seems to understand.

"Sucks," he says briefly.

Derek is amused for a moment at how much his blunt, single-word description sounds like something Amy would say. There are pieces of the Shepherds all over Mark, it seems. Maybe the reverse. Or maybe both.

"Thank you, for the consult," Derek says. "I hope you don't end all your consults with a fistfight," he can't resist adding.

"Just the really special ones." Mark gives him a half-smile that makes him look very much like himself, and then glances down at his hand again. "Yeah, I should probably get Viv and go. Just in case Nancy still has the cops on speed dial."

…

With Meredith and Zola otherwise occupied, Derek stays with Mark until a young woman in scrubs approaches holding Vivian by the hand. She flashes first father and then daughter a dazzling smile. "Bye, sweetie," she says to Viv, flicking a lock of dark hair over her shoulder. "I hope I get to see you soon."

Mark looks vaguely uncomfortable, but it vanishes when Viv gets to his side. He takes her messy ponytail in his hand and smiles down at her. "Were you good while I was working?" he asks.

"She was perfect," the woman – her name tag identifies her as a resident, Derek sees now – tells Mark, with another big smile.

"Are you done working now?" Viv asks, tilting her head back to see her father.

"Yeah, baby, I'm done working now." He glances briefly at the waiting woman. "Thanks for watching her," he says, his attention on Viv even though his words are directed to the resident who arrived with her.

"Anytime," she says, then glances at Derek. "Hi," she says, and he nods at her briefly, not really sure why she's still here. Then her pager goes off and then she's gone in a squeak of sneakers.

"Now can we go see Mommy?" Viv pulls on her father's hand – it's his right, and Mark winces a little, but doesn't stop her. "You _said_ we could. After you did your work."

"We're going, baby. Just hang on a sec." Mark looks at Derek. "So … let me know if you, uh, if you need anything while you're in town."

It's an interesting swap for even a moment, to think that they could be helpful, but then he already has been with his consult. Derek thanks him.

Viv looks like she's about to remind her father again that she wants to leave, and then she pauses as if she's just remembered something. Looking up at Derek, she raises three small fingers.

"It's my birthday in this many days," she says gravely.

"It is?"

Viv nods.

"Then happy birthday … in _this_ many days," Derek replies with a smile, holding up the same number of his own fingers. Viv's mouth twitches for a moment, as if she too is going to smile. Then she turns to her father and tugs on his hand again.

"Daddy … you said we were going."

"We are." Mark glances once more at Derek. "See you," he says.

Or was it, _see you?_ with a question mark.

Derek isn't quite sure, only that he nods in return, and then father and daughter are walking away.

"Bye," Viv tosses the word over her shoulder, unprompted, a few strides down the hall. She's saying something to her father but Derek can't make out the words, and then they're both swallowed up by the automatic doors and he can't see them at all anymore.

…

When he gets back to the family waiting room, his mother is there, along with Liz, and Nancy and Steve are gone.

"They're with Joy," Liz says before Derek can ask. She exchanges a look with Derek he remembers well from his childhood.

It can best be summed up in two words:

 _Mom knows._

Derek takes his time sitting down. Buys time, really.

"Derek."

"Yes, Mom?"

"I'm not old enough yet for you to think I don't notice anything," Carolyn says mildly. "Is one of you going to tell me what happened, or should I just wait for the principal to call?"

Derek and Liz exchange a glance.

His mother shakes her head, her lips pressed together. "I'm surprised," she admits once she's learned the details. "But then they're under terrible strain."

"Nancy didn't want you to know," Liz says quietly.

"Of course she didn't." His mother sighs. "Nancy thinks she's invulnerable. She always has, since she first decided to learn to walk on the blacktop after refusing on every patch of grass and carpet I offered her. She's never liked to make things easy." Her voice is soft, reminiscent, and Derek is reminded for the second time since this latest hospitalization that Nancy, for all her bones and angles, her sharp looks and sharper words, her five children and her medical degree, was his mother's baby first.

Liz's head is tilted, highlighting what Derek has seen on this visit is a growing resemblance to their mother, despite her significantly taller height. Derek can recognize guilt in her dark eyes. Nancy is her sister too.

"And what happened to Steve?" their mother asks.

"Mark happened to Steve," Derek says.

His mother looks like she's fighting a smile now. "Mark was always a protective one," she muses. "And I suppose it can't hurt for him to … release a little stress now and then."

It hurt Steve, Derek thinks, but then his brother-in-law has always seemed like a solid wall of a man, unbothered by the goings-on around him. Either way, whether Mark shook him out of it or it was another glancing blow like Nancy's typical verbal arsenal, he's not sure.

But it's over. If feels over, in a way it didn't before.

"Did Mark come by just for fisticuffs?" their mother is asking now.

Derek smiles a little. It wouldn't have been so beyond his old friend, when they were young. Mark gave more than one shiner to Derek's baseball rivals when he felt they were deserved. "He was consulting on Jesse," Derek says, and tells his mother what they learned.

…

He makes another of the circular rounds that has become his new normal routine, checking off _asleep_ for Jesse and Sarah, _no change_ for Joy, stopping by the indoor playground to find a gleeful Zola has set up a tea party on top of the slide and no one, from Meredith to the boy twice her size she's apparently convinced to play with her, seems to have the heart to ask her to move it.

Zola is delighted to see her father, pouring him an enthusiastic cup of air and introducing him to her new friend, Penguin.

"My name isn't really Penguin, it's Caleb," the little boy whispers when Zola is looking away. Derek gives him a conspiratorial nod.

On the benches set up for parents, a tired looking man with the same thicket of black hair as Caleb is sitting, looking between what must be his son and the blackberry that must contain news of whatever loved one they're visiting.

"That's a _nice_ teacup, Penguin," Zola says happily. She pats her new friend on the arm. "Good job. Sing a song now, okay?" she asks him.

Derek excuses himself, figuring Caleb doesn't need any more of an audience. He hears the beginning of the _Itsy Bitsy Spider_ as he walks away; he'd feel guilty that his daughter has convinced the little boy to entertain her, but Zola's delighted clapping and effusive praise seem to be putting a smile on Caleb's face too.

Pure sunshine: from the moment they first laid eyes on her. Any hospital playground would be lucky to have his daughter.

He sits with Meredith for a while, filling her in on everything she missed, from his surprise run-in with Mark to Mark's somewhat less surprising run-in with Steve.

"I guess Steve isn't the only one who needed to let off steam," Meredith says mildly.

Derek glances at her. "My mother said pretty much the same thing."

"Don't get all Freudian on me, Derek." She looks amused.

"Never." He picks up her hand. "Have I mentioned that I love you?"

"You have." She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, so much strength in such a small space. "But you have my permission to re-mention it whenever you want."

"Excellent." He leans back a little, stretching a crick in his neck.

"You should sleep in a real bed tonight," Meredith suggests.

" _You_ should sleep in a real bed tonight," he counters, his gaze slipping automatically toward her midsection.

When she laughs, he's first relieved she's not annoyed … and then curious. "What's so funny?"

"Just – I never pictured us as those people."

"Which people?"

"The people who want to get their spouses into bed … so they can sleep."

She has a point, as accurate as it is amusing. But parenthood, he supposes, changes everything, and Zola's bell-like laugh trickling across the indoor playspace confirms it.

…

Caffeinated, rejuvenated from time with his wife and daughter, he heads back to the family waiting room only to run into Dr. Cranberg yards away.

"Just finished updating the parents," he says shortly, his face neutral.

He has that brusque, general way of making statements Derek associates with a certain kind of surgeon.

Derek nods. Cranberg checks his pager with one blink and then looks up again.

"So you're Sloan's friend, huh? I didn't realize."

Derek has been gone from the city for a long time. He's still unprepared to be introduced that way. _Sloan's friend._ It's not in that order, not usually. Mark is _his_ friend, or was, but he supposes the order of things can change after half a decade.

Derek just nods, accepting the designation.

The other man glances at him over the top of the chart. "He's good," he says. "Great hands. I hated to bother him on leave, but it's Byrne's kid and all."

Derek nods. The doctor doesn't seem to see any connection between Mark and Steve's family in particular, other than a connection to the larger network of the children of New York physicians. Derek certainly isn't going to be the one to update him.

"Terrible what's happening with Sloan's wife," the surgeon continues.

Derek takes a moment to hear it presented in this way.

 _Terrible what's happening with Sloan's wife._

Here, in this six-years-later world, Addison is Mark's wife. Of course, he knew this. Presented simply, though, without the footnote to the scandal that separated the three of them, it still sounds somehow different.

But there's only one thing to say, because it _is_ terrible, or it certainly has been, at least. Derek nods again, unwilling to part with any other information, not when both Mark and Addison have been so reticent to share. He's not even sure how Cranberg knows as much as he does.

"He's not really a talker, Sloan," Cranberg continues. "But you know, he went on leave to deal with it. She's a surgeon too."

Derek nods again, accepting the surreality of the moment.

"What did you say your name was?" Cranberg asks, glancing at his pager again.

"… Derek." He leaves out his surname for some reason, even though he's fairly certain he's never been more _Shepherd_ than he is here.

It's one of those things he can vaguely recall from living in New York, that people like Addison would say things like, _Manhattan is such a small town_ , and they would mean things like this: that everyone is loosely connected by the same threads, that what goes around once comes around again. That Derek could fly across the country to his mother's bedside and end up at his niece's instead, with a significant detour down a road he thought he'd left behind.

That doctors know each other's children and old friends give consults and sometimes, hospital waiting rooms are closer than you would think.

"Derek," Cranberg repeats. "Right. Good luck with everything," he says as he walks away.

Good luck? Well. Derek will take it.

He supposes they could all use some good luck.

That … and the one thing they can't have, according to his mother: more time.

…

Time.

Time for the brain to heal itself, to grow more responsive to stimuli.

What do you do with that time?

"You go," one of Joy's doctors is suggesting to Nancy, gently, framed in the archway of the family waiting room. There's a social worker with her: Derek has no trouble identifying her from her softly empathetic eyes to her sensible shoes. "You take your other kid home and let her sleep in a real bed. And you come back."

"I'm not leaving."

"You can take turns." She's the peds surgeon, and she looks like she hasn't slept much more than any of the Shepherds.

Nancy eschews this idea, and when it's only family again she actually puts a manicured nail to her mouth to bite a cuticle like Derek hasn't seen her do in thirty years. More. Probably not since –

"We can take Sarah," Liz says quickly, and Derek supposes the significance of the gesture wasn't lost on their oldest sister. "When she's discharged."

"No, you have to go home." Nancy's expression is distant. "You have your practice."

"Nance." Liz touches her arm. "It's okay."

The day is winding down. It's always the same color of fluorescent bright inside the hospital, regardless of the light that makes it in through paned glass.

But with the neuro report, with Cranberg's update, with another session of logistics … the long procession of hours that has coalesced into an endless _today_ is narrowing out.

"Leave it, Lizzie," Nancy says without malice, in that same numbed tone from earlier, like the fight's gone out of her. Out of Nancy, who's always been at least fifty percent fight at any given time – something, despite their natural opposition, she shares with her youngest sister. "We're not going anywhere," Nancy continues. "Sarah will have to stay here."

Liz exchanges another look with Derek. Keeping Sarah in the hospital for as long as Joy could potentially need care – he knows their sister is letting her grief and shock speak, her confusion, but it still doesn't make sense.

"Let's just take it day by day," Liz suggests, using their mother's placating tone along with her words.

 _Day by day_.

As this day winds to a close, they sit again on squeaking couches, just their generation of Shepherds now. There's no Carolyn to corral them or teenage offspring to distract them; she's taken the remaining grandchildren and in-laws to the cafeteria to eat.

As a result, the family lounge has the feeling of caffeinated disconnection: that something old has ended, and something new is starting.

And all they can do is wait.

"Nancy."

They look up as one to see that Steve is back in the room. He's standing over the same squeaking couch, extending a hand to his wife, a mirror of his position that morning.

Nancy looks up, seeming a little dazed.

"They're going to try to wake Joy again," he says quietly. "It's time."

Derek and Amy exchange a look, Nancy slips her hand into her husband's and lets him pull her to her feet, and it starts all over.

* * *

 _... okay, was that enough Sloans for you? I love Mark. I think he's such a complex character. He did so many things that were seemingly at odds while he was on the show. It made sense to me that he'd be a voice of reason about fighting (the one Derek remembered) but also throw his own punches. And that's not to say what he did here was right, or that he should have done it. He just ... did it._

 _That said, there's plenty more Sloans - and Shepherds - where that came from. Bear with me, and next chapter we're leaving the hospital. The chapter after that - well. You'll have to wait and see where they end up, but it will be somewhere new._

 _Thank you so much, as always, for reading! I hope you'll review and let me know what you thought. I love hearing your insights and predictions and thoughts. See you next time._


	56. there is a light

_**A/N: First of all, thank you so much for the feedback on the previous chapter! I'm so happy you're still reading, because I'm still writing. Like, a lot. This chapter is insanely long, even for me. It's not just that I can't kill my darlings, although we all know I suck at that, but that there's a little more story left to tell than I realized. So we're still winding to the close, but there are a couple chapters left.**_

 _ **Starting with this one.**_

* * *

 _there is a light  
..._

* * *

Life is painful.

Meredith knows this, both as a person and as a physician. There is a baby's first cry declaring its entry into life ... and there is the pain response that will remain the hallmark of consciousness for the rest of its life.

Fail to respond to pain, fail to sustain life.

There's a reason they track it as carefully as they do.

 _Trying again_ , that's what Derek texted her. There was no need to tell her any more detail: she knows exactly what they're doing. As a doctor, she knows.

What it must be like to be a mother, when it's _your_ child whose pain the doctors are tracking?

For that, thank god, she has no personal reference.

These last two weeks have plunged her deep into Derek's family, deeper than she thought possible when she urged him to make the cross-country flight.

On this trip, Nancy has become more than the distracted, and then angry, relic of the long-ago beach wedding that served as her chaotic introduction to her then-boyfriend's family of origin.

She's sorted out some of it, the beginning of it, the complicated strands that make up the last four – no, five – decades of Shepherd history. The pieces of Derek that make up part of the whole that is hers.

There's more than she'll ever be able to untangle. Of that she's certain. And it's okay.

The chaos, the mess of it all – it's a lot. But the tradeoff, the cousins and aunts and uncles doting on her child, accepting her into the fold of their complicated family? That's something her daughter deserves. Maybe even something she needs. Of _that_ … she's also certain.

 _Get out_ , that was her own family mantra. _Get educated, get traveling, get out._ Move away. Make a life. Forget the past. Find a home that's _not_ the hospital.

Okay … with the exception of that last part … she did fairly well.

 _Get in_ never seemed like a viable option.

More family, more time? No.

She tried, in fairness. She opened her heart, with some effort and more trepidation.

 _Your presence would be distracting … that's the thing._

That intense sense of belonging Derek's extended family has heaped on Zola, on Meredith too?

That was new.

 _It would just be easier_ , said the woman whose DNA would pronounce her half of Meredith's sister. The second half of the sentence, the silent half: _… if you had never existed._

So they went back to pretending.

It's all condition. _It would just be easier_ if Meredith's father never made the mistake of impregnating her mother. Meredith _could_ have been fine, just fine, alone.

It's condition and it's choice.

She had a sister – of that she's certain, too. One sister.

Two weeks, now, with Derek's four.

" _Watch_ , Mama," Zola reminds her, poised on top of the slide. Her sunny face is all smiles. She has no doubt that Meredith will respond. That she wants to be there.

Choice – she _could_ be just fine, alone. She could survive, without Derek, though the thought is painful enough to catch the breath in her throat.

She could … but she chooses not to.

"You did it!" She claps and Zola, delighted, applauds herself in return.

She chooses this. She chooses _here_ , and sometimes _here_ is the beautiful home they built together, where every beam speaks a chapter of their family story – and sometimes _here_ is a hospital playground that smells of apple juice and diaper cream and summertime sweat.

"Again," Zola proposes, after initiating, and receiving, several victorious hugs.

"Again," Meredith agrees. She sits back on her haunches to watch her daughter.

Derek's sisters have been saying, from the moment they arrives, haven't they?

How cute Zola is. How small and sweet and loving. How it won't last.

They've said it lightly, jokingly, with the benevolent satisfaction of their own children: their healthy, strong, smart children.

It feels different here, in the hospital, with Derek's niece silent in ICU, when they're _trying again._

She delivered her share of babies in medical school, assisted on some complicated Cesareans in residency. That indrawn breath in the room, waiting for the baby's cry: that glorious moment of proof that there is pain. Because where there is pain, there is life.

Is this the only other time parents wait white-knuckled with the _hope_ that their child will feel pain?

 _Trying again._

There's nothing she can do, she knows, except wait. Wait and accept an armful of warm wriggly toddler, fresh from the slide.

"Where'd Daddy go?" Zola lolls against her shoulder, peering up at her with interest.

"Daddy is helping your cousin." Meredith eases back until she's sitting cross-legged – crouching with the weight of a toddler plus the shifting weight of her changing body doesn't quite work anymore – and lets Zola plop contentedly into her lap.

She perks up at the word _cousin_. "Vivi?" she asks eagerly.

Meredith smiles at this. She's already decided not to correct Zola's understandable misimpression. Not here, where the bonds of family have only some things to do with blood. "Not Vivi," she says, then pauses, not sure she wants to get into this. If she identifies _Joy_ , will Zola ask for her when they go back to the family waiting room, maybe upsetting Nancy or some of the other Shepherds?

"Chloe," Zola guesses with a smile, apparently deciding this is a fun game.

Meredith embraces the chance at distraction. "You remember everyone's names, don't you, Zozo? You have such a good memory."

"Yeah, I do," Zola beams. "Cousin Caitlin," she says triumphantly. "Aunt Lizzie!"

"Aunt Lizzie is actually your aunt," Meredith says, poking Zola gently into her little protruding belly.

Recovering from her spontaneous giggle fit, Zola shakes her head firmly. "No, my cousin," she corrects her mother. "I have a lot of my cousins," she continues confidently. " _So_ many cousins. All the cousins."

It feels pretty accurate, here in New York, so Meredith isn't going to correct her.

She gets a big, wet kiss in response, and decides it was well worth a little genealogical open-mindedness.

…

"She responded." Nancy's voice is shaking, hard, when she updates him. "Derek, she responded … ."

She hugs him, surprising him – she's never been particularly demonstrative, not with him anyway, but he returns the embrace carefully, the prominent knobs of her spine announcing themselves to his fingertips.

Her bony shoulder is right under his chin and he sees Amy, a head below, staring at him.

They're in the narrow waiting area outside the cubicle where Joy's under constant monitoring. Joy, who had her first pain response. Less voluble than her first squall of life, not quite thirteen years ago, apparently no less reassuring to her mother.

Less meaningful? That will take time to tell.

Nancy releases him, her eyes glassy. _Time_ is clearly not what she's considering.

"This is good," she recites. "It's going to be okay. It's _good_." She turns to Amy as if challenging her to disagree, and Derek tries to remember a prayer, any prayer, from his Sunday school days that his younger sister won't make things worse.

Steve is thanking them, his voice shaking, Nancy is gripping his arm and then they're returning to Joy and Derek is shuttling Amy out the door, far enough down the hall that she shakes her arm free – he hadn't realized he'd been holding onto her, presumably worried she'd try to stay and break whatever fragile peace she seems to have negotiated with Nancy.

" _It's going to be okay,_ " Amy repeats their older sister's words. She lifts an eyebrow.

"It may be," Derek says. "We don't know."

"Nancy thinks she knows. Steve's not going to talk her out of it. Not now." Amy pauses. "Did he really hit her?" she asks quietly.

Derek is used to information trickling down to Amy last, the way she'd argue they left her the last bits of ice cream – the gummy strawberry of the supermarket-brand Neapolitan their mother used to buy, with the better and creamier bits taken by older and faster siblings. Worn out wellington boots with ripped fabric liner, once no one else wanted them. The drumsticks, which went to Amy so often that he was somewhat startled to learn, in adulthood, that she'd never liked dark meat. Such is the lot of the fifth child: they take what's left.

He's not sure who told Amy what happened between Nancy and Steve, how much she figured out for herself, how much is a question and how much testing him. It's the old Shepherd currency: information. Who knows what, and when, and by what means, and he wants out of the economy he never quite could figure out how to balance.

"What did you hear?" Derek asks her, keeping his tone casual.

She doesn't answer his question, and he doesn't answer hers.

Their silence is as loud as the mute red mark on Nancy's cheek.

"It's the bare minimum, Derek." Amy props her hands on her hips, back to Joy's monitoring, apparently. "The barest. Nancy's acting like she's back to freakin' … tennis or whatever isn't going to help."

"Amy." He shakes his head. "Let her process it. Let her have a moment of hope."

"What's the point?"

"The point is to have that moment," he tells her patiently. "Don't drown her in statistics and – neurosurgery. That's not what she needs. Not today."

"But every day will be like this," Amy insists, not seeming able to help herself.

"You don't know that." He tries to keep his tone gentle. Joy is Amy's niece too, for all of her rift with her mother.

"Actually, it's my job to know it."

"You're not _on_ the job, Amy." Derek hears the irritation in his tone. So much for gentle: it's possible the youngest Shepherd isn't the only one who can't always help herself.

Sighing, he tips his chin in semi-apology toward his youngest sister. It's the best he can do, right now, and she seems to settle for it.

"Did Mark really hit Steve?" she asks, apparently not planning to leave well enough alone.

"What do you think?" he counters.

"I asked you first."

He shakes his head. Amy looks very much like her younger self in this moment, under the fluorescents: for all the damage she's done to her body over the years, her face looks full and healthy, if exhausted. It's not so long ago that she was Joy's age. And then Jesse's, with Jesse's addiction. Shrill screams caught in his memory forever. And that was before the wedding. Her addiction was the shape and scope of the second half of his twenties. Her relapse: the first few years of his thirties. That Amy could persist in feeling left out, excluded, when her problems were the center of the spinning Shepherd wheel for so long – it was beyond him, for years, to see that.

Will it be the same for Jesse? Middle child, middle of the road, the middle of a drama Derek never expected when he flew across the country for his mother's routine surgery.

Except that _his_ mother didn't give up on Amy. She took breaks, to be certain, she broke down, she broke apart, but she didn't give up.

"Nancy won't see Jesse," Amy says, as if she's read his mind. She's staring at him closely enough to, anyway.

"I know that, Amy." He's tired, and his voice makes that clear.

"You have to do something, Derek," and it's the same words Nancy used when she begged Derek to intercede on her husband's behalf: _do something._

His sisters still _expect_ , after he put a country between them, took six years off – nearly seven – from his role as their unofficial go-between.

 _Do something._

"Come with me," he says to Amy.

Confusion flickers in her eyes. "Where?"

"No more questions." He turns to go. "Are you coming?" he asks over his shoulder.

She's the youngest Shepherd; he knew all along she'd follow.

…

"I'm not opposed to cuteness," Amy says, as they watch Zola careen down the slide again and then turn expectantly to her family for their enthusiastic response. "I'm really not. But just tell me how this is _doing something_?"

Derek shrugs. It made sense in the moment. These things take _time_ , something his sisters never seemed to understand. Nor, if he were to analyze it, to pick it apart, did his ex-wife. Half a decade after their divorce, he can acknowledge that it's less a character flaw on her part _or_ his. A neutral incompatibility, that's all.

 _Do something_ isn't simple; it never is.

But convincing Nancy to see Jesse, helping Nancy understand that a small step of victory for Joy, while not nothing, isn't everything – he can't snap to it immediately.

He needs to process.

He needs to think.

He needs his family, and Zola runs into his arms as if to prove his point. "Daddy, you came back," she beams, turning her little face up for a kiss.

He gives her two – no, three. "I'll always come back," he reminds her – they're actually lines from one of the well-meaning little books on working parents they have around the day care, usually featuring non-gendered animals. _I'll always come back_ is what Mommy and Daddy Giraffes tell their young, apparently. Coincidentally. Before they go to work.

When he looks over at Amy, there are tears in her blue eyes.

She shakes her head before he can say anything.

Meredith joins them and they exchange a wordless look, _married_ for _I'll fill you in later._

"Aunt Amy, do you have my bacon?" Zola asks conversationally, her sentence structure as impressive as her memory and the mercenary nature his family seems to bring out.

Amy pretends to check her pockets. "I'm all out, kid. Sorry." She pauses. "How about something else?"

"Gummy bears," Zola says instantly, before Derek can intercede. "Gummy bears, okay?"

Amy shrugs. "Sounds good to me. Those are baby teeth, right?" She bares her teeth at Zola, making a silly face, and Zola giggles before mimicking it.

"Amy – "

"What?"

"Nothing," Derek says when Meredith gives him a reassuring nod.

"I can take her," Amy suggests. "And you can go talk to Nancy."

"How is that fair?" Derek asks.

"Isn't that my line?" Amy holds a hand out to Zola. "Want to go get some candy?"

"Okay, I'm not crazy about that phrasing," Derek interjects.

"I'm not a stranger." Amy looks hurt.

Zola, meanwhile, has clambered off the bench and reached for Amy's hand. "Gummy bears," she reminds her aunt.

"Amy."

"Okay, sorry. We can all go," Amy says without enthusiasm. She pauses. "I've been sober for almost two years," she adds.

"I know that." He tries not to think about what he finally learned took place on the third floor of Mark and Addison's townhouse. He knows Amy loves Vivian, even if he doesn't quite understand her relationship with the Sloans. It's not fair to throw that in his face any more than it is in hers.

"Maybe you two can go," Meredith suggests. "And I can freshen up a little. And meet you back in the lounge?"

Zola's lower lip trembles. Derek scoops her off the ground to kiss her cheek. "We'll see Mommy right after we get our gummy bears," he assures his daughter, hoping the candy reference will do the trick.

It does.

"Should I be offended?" Meredith jokes.

"You want anything?" Amy pockets her phone as Derek lowers Zola to the ground again, taking her hand and noting, a little touched, that his daughter slips her other hand into Amy's.

"No, thank you."

"Oh, wait, I forgot." Amy glances down at Zola and lowers her voice. "I talked to Mark," she says.

Derek isn't sure whether she means before or after he did. "Is, uh, is everything okay?" he asks.

Amy nods. "Addison's talking," she says. "Actually, um, she wants to see you. She doesn't know about all this," she adds quickly, gesturing with her pointed chin at what he supposes is everything surrounding Jesse's addiction and the accident.

"Right." Derek is surprised, a little caught off guard. Addison wants to see him? He supposes it's not that strange, not when he's spent the last two weeks growing close again to Mark, caring for his daughter. He glances at Meredith, then back to Amy. "I don't think I should leave yet," he says, "but maybe – "

"No, not you," Amy says bluntly. "I mean – no offense, Derek, and he _did_ say how grateful she is for all you guys did for Viv, but it's Meredith she wants to see."

"Ah." Derek pauses. "That makes a little more sense."

"It does?" Amy looks intrigued.

But he's already two steps ahead. Addison wants to talk to Meredith – Derek likes this idea. MSC, where Addison is recovering, is right down the block from their temporary apartment. Meredith can go to MSC, say hello to Addison, and then take Zola back to the apartment to rest and then spend the night in a real bed.

"Derek." Meredith glances down at Zola, then back at him. "We're fine staying here with you."

"I know you are."

Zola, impatient for her promised candy, tugs on his hand and Amy's in turn. "We _gotta_ go," she reminds them.

Derek leans in to give Meredith a kiss. "I'll join you," he promises quietly. "After Joy's next check, I'll come back to the apartment and sleep there too."

Meredith is studying his face when he draws back, and he knows from her expression that she's aware he's taking advantage of Addison's fortuitous request.

And he knows, from her face, how exhausted she is. She looks beautiful, but she looks exhausted. He knows better than to point at her pregnancy as the reason she needs rest, so this – yes, he's taking advantage. He'd do more than that, to ensure her rest, and when she nods assent he breathes a quick sigh of relief before Zola pulls hard on his hand to remind him of her grave need for gelatinously edible forest animals.

…

He's good.

Derek Shepherd is good.

And she knows this, she's aware of this, that he knows how to work on her better than anyone else has or could.

Nor is he wrong that she's exhausted, or that Zola deserves to spend the night with a parent rather than even the most loving of her extended family.

She makes her way back to the family lounge for their promised reunion – she smiles a little at the memory of Amy inadvertently acting out a strangers-with-candy nightmare. For some reason, she finds Amy's blunt, slightly clumsy attempts to spend time with Zola touching, maybe even more so than the easier comfort with toddlers the other Shepherd sisters have come by naturally.

She opens the door on a melee.

Maybe not a melee by Shepherd standards, but still.

Meredith can see, at first, the back of a dark head and that the owner of the head is arguing with Nancy. One of Liz's daughters?

Everyone is too embroiled to notice the door opening.

" – to worry you," Nancy is saying, her tone pleading and bordering on shrill all at once.

" – not going to stay when all the – "

" – this isn't the time to – "

" – should have _told_ – "

They stop talking when the door swings shut, and the owner of the dark head turns around. Meredith notices two things at once: first, while the back of her head was all dark, there are blue streaks down either side of the front.

And second, even if not for the hairstyle, Meredith has spent long enough now with Derek's nieces to be able to identify, with some confidence, that while she is around their age, this is someone new.

"Who are you?" the girl asks.

"That's Meredith," Nancy says impatiently, "Uncle Derek's wife. Emma, why didn't you at least tell me you were coming?"

"Oh yeah, you were at the wedding." The girl – Emma, apparently – tilts her head a little to take Meredith in and she can see Nancy in the shape of her face and her expression too. This must be Nancy and Steve's oldest. Liz told her something about her, at that first dinner, but she can't remember now.

"Hi," Meredith says, a little unsure what to say next, but she doesn't have to worry because they're back to the races.

"Why didn't you tell _me_?" Emma turns back to her parents. Meredith sees her patterned shirt is damp with sweat; there's a canvas backpack on the linoleum floor next to her. She must have just arrived.

"We didn't want to worry you," Nancy says, in the tone of someone repeating herself. She glances at Steve, who nods. "We wanted you to stay in Boston."

Meredith sees two of Liz's daughters exchanging a glance and is reminded of the complex webs Derek has described to her, the way information is woven between and among the siblings. Down, it seems, to the next generation.

"Of course I'm worried." Emma is leaning back, looking from one parent to the other. "'Course I came."

Emma's not quite as tall as some of the others; she has to tilt her head back to see her mother's face. She looks from her mother to her father – Meredith looks too, from her eyes: the red mark on Nancy's cheek that's no longer covered with makeup; the more dramatic bruise on Steve's cheekbone.

"Jesse did that?" Emma asks shakily. "He hurt you guys?"

There's another pregnant silence in the room.

"Em." Steve has an arm around her now. "It's okay."

"Sean should be here," Emma says. There are tears in her voice. "It's not fair, you not telling us. It's not."

"There's nothing Sean can do, honey." Steve's tone is reassuringly calm. "Or you. That's why we didn't call."

A few feet from the drama, Meredith finds herself wondering who _did_ contact Emma.

"Can I see Joy?" Emma asks.

Nancy and Steve exchange a look.

"Can I see Jess? Can I see anyone?" Emma is starting to cry. Steve has both his arms around her now, his chin resting on the top of her dark head.

"Seanie should be here," Emma says again, tearfully, when she's pulled away from the embrace. "Mom, you have to call him."

"Emma." Steve sounds exhausted.

"Then I want to call him. How do you even reach him at that stupid camp?"

"Em – why don't you come sit down?" Liz holds out a hand. "We'll catch you up."

Emma shakes her head, shoving her hair out of her eyes. "He should know too. Sean should know. _Mom_ ," she pleads.

"Emma, enough." Steve rests a hand on Nancy's shaking back. "Leave your mother alone."

Meredith is closer to the door than any Shepherd, so she hears the knob turning.

"Is Joy – is she still alive?" Emma asks shakily.

"She's alive," Steve says quickly; Meredith sees Nancy sagging against his hand as if the question, and its answer, took a lot out of her.

Emma must be relieved – but it doesn't feel like relief. It feels like tension, and then the door swings open and a very familiar voice calls out a cheerful _hi!_ to the assembled Shepherds.

It seems that Meredith's daughter, like Nancy's, is back.

…

The tension is palpable as soon as he enters the room.

"Hi!" Zola calls happily. She pulls away from Derek before he can stop her and jogs right into the middle of the room. "Aunt Nancy, look at my _gummy bears_!"

Derek winces; it would be funny if it weren't so uncomfortable.

Nancy seems half frozen between Steve and a teary Emma – so Emma _is_ here, despite Nancy's not wanting to call her, and in the years since Derek has seen her she's gone from an artsy teenager to … an artsy young adult … who still seems to have it out for her mother a bit. Although this time she has a point, if what she's upset about is not knowing about her younger siblings' collision and hospitalization.

"Zozo," Derek says hastily, crossing the room to remove her from the situation.

But before he can, Nancy is squatting down and lifting her up. She stands with Zola still in her arms, taking a moment to adjust her. It must have been a while since she's held a toddler, and Zola looks impossible soft and round in Nancy's bony arms.

Derek stands a foot away, wary.

"You have gummy bears?" Nancy asks Zola, as if it's the most interesting news in the world.

"Yeah, _all_ of them," Zola beams. She opens a gummy little fist. "I can share," she says.

Derek has to swallow a laugh – germ-phobic Nancy accepting sweat-marinated gummy bears from a toddler's hand – but Nancy just shakes her head solemnly. "No, thank you. I'd like you to have them."

"Kay." Zola smiles at her, then reaches a hand out to touch one of Nancy's delicate, dangling earrings.

"Don't touch, Zozo," Derek reminds her gently, moving in to take her hand.

"It's okay, Derek," Nancy says. "It's fine." Her dark eyes are faraway for a moment. There was a time when it was perfectly natural to see Nancy with a toddler in her arms. This version of Nancy seems more brittle, as if she's calcified in his time away from New York. As if her children's growing up has made her more breakable than she was before.

But Derek takes her word for it, withdraws his hand, and lets Zola touch the delicate bands of gold hanging from Nancy's earlobe. There's a sparkling diamond in the center. "Pretty," Zola says.

"Thank you, sweetheart." Nancy strokes her hair and Zola surprises him by laying her head on his sister's bony shoulder.

No one speaks, and then Emma turns and walks out, the door closing loudly behind her.

The sound seems to bring everyone back to life. Nancy hands Zola back to Derek, and then she and Steve are talking in low, intense tones.

"You didn't tell me not to text her." Carly is wiping tears from her eyes while Caitlin stands by, looking anxious. "I text her all the time."

So Carly's the one who alerted Emma, then. Those two were always close, he remembers, nearly the same age though born under very different circumstances. Derek is struck by this – in the face of Nancy's twins and Jesse and their sibling conspiracy, has the Shepherd currency of secrets been replaced in the new generation? Emma's birth certificate may say _Byrne_ , and Carly's may say _Danvers_ , but they are indeed Shepherds.

"Carly." Liz is shaking her head, though she looks sad rather than angry.

"I thought someone would tell her." Carly looks less like the competent medical student he knows her to be, now, and more like the teenager she was when he left New York. One who's been caught doing something she shouldn't have done. "I'd want to know, if it were Chris. If Cait and Chloe were in the hospital."

"It's not up to you." Liz looks like her heart isn't in the scolding; Derek can't really blame her.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Nancy," Carly says softly.

"It's not your fault." Nancy strokes her niece's cheek distractedly. "I know you girls talk, I just didn't … ." She glances at Steve.

"Don't worry about it, honey." Steve smiles at Carly; Derek can tell from the movement of his face that it's uncomfortable.

"I can go talk to her." Carly glances at Liz.

"I'll go." Nancy looks at Steve, who nods.

"I'm going to check on Jesse," he says, and Nancy has no response to that – not a verbal one, anyway.

Nancy has one hand on the knob when the door opens.

"Dr. Byrne? There's an issue with Sarah."

Nancy turns to Derek, panic in her eyes, which is how he ends up going with her to the elevators at a brisk half-run.

…

"Should I go?" Carly asks. "See if I can find Emma?"

Meredith is getting much better at sorting out Derek's nieces. _Their_ nieces, she supposes. Carly is the medical student. Her hair is shorter. Caitlin and Chloe look quite a bit alike to her still, with long dark hair, but Chloe has a ponytail. Which she realizes isn't permanent. Chloe also has more of a teenager's stance, shifting her weight with frequency. Caitlin's voice is a little deeper.

Liz shakes her head. "I think all of you need a break."

Meredith sees the sisters exchange looks with each other.

"Get something to eat, will you, if you're still refusing to – of course you are." Liz shakes her head. "Chloe, you're a minor," she reminds her youngest daughter, her tone mild.

"For like three months." Chloe sounds a little congested, like she's been crying. "We all want to stay," she says, and the others nod too.

"Okay." Liz massages her temples. "Fine. Carly – take them to get some food, please."

Zola, who has been hanging onto Caitlin's hands and smiling up at her as they play some sort of swinging game, looks interested. "Me too?" she asks.

Meredith watches with interest too; Carly is the most upset of the three but she's the oldest, and Caitlin and Chloe don't exactly need escorts. But giving her that responsibility seems to calm her down and before long, all three of them are leaving.

"Zozo, let's let the big girls go," Meredith suggests, holding out her hand for her daughter.

"No, I'm _big_ ," Zola protests, raising her voice.

"Zola." Meredith crouches down to her level, prepared to reason with her.

"It's okay, Aunt Meredith, she can come with us." Caitlin is smiling when Meredith tilts her head up to see.

"If you're sure." Meredith glances from one cousin to the next. Zola looks pleased with her victory, holding Caitlin's hand with her own gummy little one and presumably dreaming of more candy.

"We'll watch her," Chloe promises.

The door closes behind them.

"She's a little love, isn't she?" Liz is looking fondly toward the door. "The girls can't get enough of her."

Meredith smiles weakly, just hoping whatever they have planned isn't purely sugar-based.

"Don't worry, they're responsible," Liz says, misinterpreting her expression. "Carly was a little emotional before, but that's not like her – she didn't sleep last night, not really. Chloe and Cait have been sitting for years."

"I'm not worried about them," Meredith assures her. "They've been wonderful with Zola."

Liz smiles a little, then shakes her head, looking serious again. "I guess the cat's out of the bag. It's hard to keep secrets in this family."

So it seems.

"Emma's not taking it very well," Liz observes. "I'll go see if I can track her down – " but her phone rings with a patient call, and then she's taking it in the corner of the lounge, leaving Meredith and Amy.

"I always liked Emma," Amy muses, twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger. "Lizzie's girls are way too nice. Emma always kind of gave Nancy a hard time, and, I mean, someone had to do it after I moved away, right?"

Before she can respond, Amy's phone is the next to buzz, and she glances at it.

"It's Steve." Amy's brow furrows. "I guess I'm going to – I'm going to see Jesse."

Meredith glances at her. "Should someone – "

" – find Emma?" Amy shrugs. "She's like … twenty." She pauses. "Twenty-one? I don't know. She probably just wants some space."

Meredith, who now has quite a few new entries in her phone, texts Liz's daughters with an update to her plans.

Why?

Maybe Derek was right. Maybe she can't stop taking in strays.

Maybe she just wants a change of scenery. The family lounge is … small, and feeling smaller all the time.

Or maybe it's the blue hair. That kind of took her back.

Whatever it is, she turns up the volume on her phone in case Zola needs her and sends Derek a quick text to let him know her plan.

...

"I want to see Joy," Sarah repeats stubbornly.

"I know, sweetheart, but you can't just yet." Nancy exchanges a look with Derek.

Sarah is pale but her expression is determined. She looks small in the baggy blue and white gown, her pink cast set off from her body in a sling. "I'm _not_ sick," she says. "I'm not hurt. I want to go home."

"Sarah." Nancy takes her free hand. "Daddy explained this to you, do you remember? You still need to rest, even if you're not as – even if your arm is already set."

"But why can't I see Joy?"

Nancy glances at Derek.

"Why is _he_ here?" Sarah asks.

"Sarah, please." Nancy's voice shakes a little. "You need to cooperate with the doctors. You need to stay in your room."

"I didn't do anything." Sarah's voice sounds shaky now. "How come I'm locked up in here?"

"You're not _locked up._ " Nancy looks at Derek again. "Sweetheart, you just need to rest."

Nancy looks at her watch; Derek sees it and Sarah doesn't miss it either.

"What is it? Are you going to see Joy? Can I come too?"

"Sarah, honey, just stay here and stay calm. I'll come back soon."

"No, I want to come too!" Sarah trails her mother toward the door, walking slowly with the IV bag wheeling along next to her.

Nancy's gaze at Derek, no longer over her daughter's head, not now that the twins have grown so tall, is nothing short of desperate.

And then she's gone.

Sarah watches her mother leave, and then turns to Derek, glowering.

"It's not fair," she spits, far angrier than the anxious girl he comforted yesterday. He's aware from his days in Peds that anger is a good sign when it comes to recovery.

For the patient, it's a good sign. Not necessary for the people who have to deal with the patient.

Then again – Sarah has a point.

"You're right." Derek glances from the door to the bed, trying to figure out how to make this right. He didn't do such a great job the last time, did he? Not if they're all here now.

There's one thing he needs to get straight first.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks. Sarah didn't seem her remember her previous anger at him the last time he saw her; she was dazed from the collision, though, and the last thing he wants is to frighten her again.

"No," she says quickly, then flushes a little. "I want to go home."

"I know you do."

"Why do I even have this?" She raises the arm with the IV toward Derek. It's an unfortunately effectively restraint: one arm broken, the other shackled to an IV pole.

"You were dehydrated," he tells her calmly. "And you're getting a high dose of antibiotics."

"I hate it here."

Derek nods sympathetically, just letting her talk.

"Is Joy really bad?" Sarah's voice shakes as she changes the topic. "No one will tell me anything. My mom was here and my dad was here and they said stuff but they didn't tell me _anything._ "

"She's more injured than you are," Derek says carefully, "so she needs more help."

"How injured?" Sarah is crying now. "Why can't I see her? If my mom is seeing her, why can't I go too?"

It's unpleasantly reminiscent of trying to reason with Vivian during the long nights they were caring for her and she was desperate to see her mother. Sarah may be twice Viv's age, she may be nearly as tall as her uncle, but the longing to see a hospitalized loved one, he knows well, is universal.

"She has some head trauma that they're trying to – no, Sarah, you can't do that," Derek interrupts himself, alarmed, when his niece reaches for the IV in her hand.

"I don't want to be here anymore," Sarah says, ignoring him. She twists away when he reaches for her. "No, don't touch me."

Derek glances toward the open door of her room, wondering if he needs to summon help.

"Sarah," he says calmly, "you need to lie down and rest. Keep getting stronger, and you'll be able to leave sooner."

She looks him right in the eye, and then before he can stop her, she pulls the IV out of her arm with one swift movement. She doesn't wince, although a bright red patch appears from the unceremoniously yanked tape. Blood bubbles to the surface of her skin.

 _Shit._

She staggers toward the door but he takes hold of her before she can make much progress, pushing her carefully back toward the bed. "Sit down," he orders her gently. "You're bleeding."

"I don't care!" She tries to stand up again, starting to cry angrily when he won't let her pass. He takes advantage of his nearness to the door to signal a passing white coat – it's a resident, based on his ID badge, and he looks annoyed.

"What did you do?" he demands, looking from Sarah's bleeding arm to the IV needle.

Derek regrets not flagging down a nurse.

"I want to leave," Sarah cries. "I don't need to be here."

"She's going to need to be sedated," the resident announces, to no one in particular, sounding bored.

Sarah freezes under his hands.

"I'm not sure that's necessary," Derek says calmly. Where are the nurses who handled Sarah so effectively in Peds ICU? On another day, in another hospital, he would have plenty to say to a resident like this, but he has other priorities in the moment. "Sarah." He directs his words to his niece, keeping his voice low. "It's okay. Get back in bed now, and we'll work it out."

Sarah just stares until the resident, looking annoyed again, approaches – apparently to move her back into bed. Then she seems to panic, grabbing for Derek with her good hand, the one with the bleeding arm; she's close enough that he can feel her shaking against him.

A little surprised, he holds onto her, trying to calm her down.

"Just give us a minute," he says sharply when the resident takes a step toward them; Sarah doesn't miss this, holding on tighter to his shirt. She's smeared some blood on the fabric.

"The patient needs to be in bed," the resident says without expression. "Regulations. If she won't comply, she needs to be sedated."

"I'm aware of regulations," Derek says firmly. "She's twelve years old. Just give us a minute."

The resident is paged with perfect timing, though he gives Derek an irritated look before he leaves.

Sarah is still clinging to him; he can feel her heart beating wildly through her hospital gown. "It's okay, he's gone." Carefully, he strokes her dark hair; it's matted at the back.

"I don't want to be sedated."

"I know, Sarah. Listen. I think if you get back into bed, and let them replace your IV, I can talk them out of it."

"I don't want to get back in bed," she whimpers. "I'm not sick. I just want to go home."

 _There's no one at your home._

He's not going to say it, of course. Not going to tell her that the home she remembers doesn't exist anymore. In its own way, on its own level, it's as much a relic of a distant family as the version of Mark and Addison's empty townhouse he walked into two weeks ago.

"I know you're not sick," he soothes instead, avoiding the question of _home_ , "but you do need to rest. Your body has been through trauma, even if you don't have serious injuries."

"I want to see my mom," she says in a small voice.

Derek brushes her hair away from her face. Sarah looks like Nancy in this moment, with her mother's high cheekbones.

He knew Nancy at twelve. Nancy, at twelve, still had a father.

"Your mom wants to see you, Sarah. She'll be back soon."

To his relief, Sarah nods, looking exhausted. He helps her back into bed, settling her under the covers just as the resident returns with a middle-aged, maternal-looking nurse. Derek can tell from one look at her face that she agrees with his opinion of the doctor at her side.

"She doesn't need to be sedated," Derek says quietly, keeping his voice down in the hopes that Sarah will remain in bed.

The resident blinks. "That's not your decision. You're not her parent." He glances at the nurse as if to confirm this; she does so with a nod.

"Actually … I'm in loco parentis and I can absolutely refuse sedation on her behalf," Derek says mildly, "and I know my residents are in the habit of listening to their patients who are over the age of reason." He glances toward niece, speaking up now so she can hear him. "She's back in bed, and she's ready to have the IV replaced. Right, Sarah?"

She nods.

"Fine." The resident doesn't look particularly chastened, but Derek knows he heard nonetheless.

"Can you do it?" Sarah asks Derek tremulously when he gets back to her side.

"Not in this hospital. But I'll stay with you." He glances at the nurse, who changes the tenor of the room once she takes over; she's warm and efficient with Sarah, cleaning the blood from her arm, treating and loosely wrapping the injured site with gauze. The pediatric cath is easy to replace in a new spot. As the nurse talks her through it, she's already falling asleep.

Derek sits in the chair by her bed as her eyes flutter closed, then checks in on Meredith, one-handed, with his blackberry.

So many people needing so many things, these past two weeks. This unplanned day of their time in New York. And all he wants is to be with his family. The lure of sleeping in an actual bed, in their temporary apartment, of hearing the two halves of his heart beating, breathing peacefully next to him – he wants it with an ache so strong it's physical.

"Uncle Derek?" Sarah sounds half asleep.

"I'm sorry I hit you with the tennis racket," she mumbles.

He's touched. And has the bruise to prove it.

"You were defending your sister," he says. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you needed to."

Sarah smiles the very faintest bit.

"And you have quite a forehand," he adds.

"Joy's is better," Sarah says sleepily before she drifts off again.

…

Meredith's not quite sure why she knows where to go.

Or why she goes, period.

She's not in the habit of running errands of mercy. The newest Shepherd niece is old enough to travel herself from Boston, apparently, probably in college if not older. She's no damaged five-year-old. But there's something about her – from the streaks in her hair to the wounded way she pleaded for information, that's reminiscent of that hurt little girl. And of someone else, too.

Outside it's hot enough to choke, and the noxious grey cloud doesn't help much.

Emma glances up. "You're going to tell me I shouldn't smoke," she predicts. They're yards from the hospital door.

"I doubt I need to," Meredith says, "but I do need to ask you to put that cigarette out."

"Because you're a doctor," Emma guesses, sounding bored.

"Because I'm a pregnant doctor," Meredith says patiently.

"Really?" Emma glances down at her midsection, then stubs out the cigarette. "Sorry," she says. She studies Meredith. "Why are you here?" she asks.

Oh, she could answer that question so many ways.

She decides to take it literally: "Your mother was wondering where you went," she says. "But she had to go before she could look for you."

Emma seems to be considering this.

She studies Meredith for a moment. "You're not so young," she says. "My mom said you were young, before."

There's no hostility in her tone; it's more of a child's neutral observation.

"I'm younger than she is," Meredith offers, "so I guess it's relative."

"Yeah."

"I know I should go in." Emma glances back toward the hospital. "See them, or … ." Her voice trails off. "Can I even see Joy?"

Meredith isn't sure what to say. She's not sure how much Emma knows.

Emma shrugs a little. "I'm sure they'd rather see Carly. They're my sisters, but they like Carly better. I don't blame them. I like her better too."

Her hand is shaking a little, missing her cigarette or frightened or both.

Meredith studies her for a moment. She's not really even sure why she came out here. Emma looks small hunched over on the bench with its green flaking paint. She's taller than Meredith but from the few times she's seen them, probably not as tall as the twins. She has Nancy's wide mouth and high cheekbones, but she's not as lanky as her mother.

"I'm not a very good sister," Emma says. "Not to the twins, anyway, not really."

"Having a big family … seems exhausting," Meredith offers honestly, if tentatively.

"Yeah." Emma slumps down further. "It really is. You haven't even been in ours that long but you totally get it."

She's silent for several long breaths.

Meredith doesn't speak either. The air is hot and thick with rather unpleasant summertime smells.

Grimy.

The bench is grimy, leaving some kind of sooty dust on her finger when the thumbs the chipping paint. The sidewalk under her feet is grimy. She feels grimy too, a day and a half of perspiration cooled to a sheen in the air conditioning inside, brought back to life out here. Sweat gathers at the base of her hairline, between her breasts.

Sitting out here by choice?

For someone who traveled here from Boston, Emma really must not want to be in that hospital.

Meredith is considering whether to urge her inside when Emma speaks again.

"Boston sucks," she says.

Okay, as openers go – it's not really what she expected.

"I have another year left at B.C., but I think I want to take time off." She studies Meredith's face for a moment as if she's expecting objection. "My parents don't want me to," Emma adds.

"I took time off," Meredith says. "Between college and medical school. I took time off in between."

"You did?" Emma kicks at the sidewalk with one foot. She's wearing dirty-looking blue canvas sneakers. "I didn't know that was a thing … when you were young."

"It was a thing for me."

Emma studies the peeling paint on the bench for a moment. Meredith wonders how much of the cigarette was bravado. The fingernails of her visible hand are bitten down. Traveling alone here knowing that her siblings are all hospitalized – can't have been easy.

"I hate hospitals," Emma says.

Meredith nods. She's used to hearing that, from patients and their families.

"Even though I practically grew up in one. It was like … my nanny." She makes a face. "Not this one," she adds, jerking an elbow toward the glass doors that continue to suck in and spit out groups of people at regular intervals. "St. Damian's, uptown – someone else bought it out. I think."

Emma leans back against the bench now, still slumped down. The effect makes her even smaller when she glances up at Meredith.

"I'm the reason my mom isn't a surgeon," Emma says. "She didn't mean to get pregnant."

And her dark hair with its blue streak coalesces into a memory, flips black into white and blue into pink. That's when Meredith realizes that far from intruding, she's apparently – and unknowingly – offered Emma the ear she needed.

That's what Liz was telling her, that first girls' dinner, that she couldn't remember. She remembers now. Nancy was a surgical intern with an unplanned pregnancy; she left the program to have the baby. Liz's take was that Nancy resented Amy's surgical success, just one more nail in the coffin of their troubled relationship.

That was a story, though. An unexpected baby – unplanned, maybe even unwanted, at least at that time, and a surgical career put on hold. Permanently.

Babies grow up, the planned ones and the unplanned, the wanted _right now_ ones and the terrifyingly early or late or just poorly-timed ones.

Like the one in front of her, with her fading blue hair-streaks and bitten-down nails. Like the one in front of _her_ , whose hair is its natural color, thicker than usual from pregnancy.

And so she hears the same story Liz told her, from Emma's perspective this time. A lot of time in hospitals. A big gap between her and her brothers, who were born in stair-step fashion.

"You know something ironic?." Emma draws her legs up, propping her sneakers on the chipped edge of the bench. "Jess is all – middle-child or whatever but I think he was actually the only one they planned." She wrinkles her nose a little. "Sean, maybe, I don't know. But definitely not me, or the twins. When Jesse was born, there were three of us, and that was going to be it." She pauses, seeming to consider her words. " _Is_ that ironic?"

"I'm not sure," Meredith says.

"Oh." Emma pauses. "I should go in there," she says. "I should go back."

Meredith nods, nod wanting to push.

Emma braces both hands with their bitten nails on the bench as if to push off it, then pauses.

"Your daughter is Zola, right?"

Meredith nods.

"And you're pregnant?"

She nods again.

"If you can get pregnant, how come you adopted her?" Emma asks.

Her face looks open and interested despite her blunt question and Meredith chooses to read it as tactless rather than aggressive.

"Zola chose us," she says simply. "We were lucky."

Emma's face softens, leading Meredith to think she was right in her interpretation of the question.

"She's really cute."

"Thank you." Meredith smiles. "We think so too."

"There you are!"

They both look up to see Liz approaching. She gives Meredith an apologetic look. "Em, we didn't know where you went."

"Sorry," Emma says.

"It's okay." Liz wraps an arm around her niece when she stands up. "Carly's in the cafeteria with Cait and Chloe. Zola too. They're hoping you'll join them."

Meredith is somewhere between fascinated and amused to hear Zola's name dropped as if she's one of the visiting cousins. "Okay." Emma pauses. "You'll tell my mom – "

"Of course." Liz waits until the elevator doors have closed on her niece to turn back to Meredith. "Sorry about that. Emma takes things very hard," Liz says. "It was kind of you to try to talk to her."

"It's fine." Meredith smiles a little. "The girls are okay with Zola still?"

Liz proffers her phone and Meredith is treated to a picture of a beaming Zola on Chloe's lap, holding a dish of ice cream.

"Derek has been great with Sarah," Liz tells her, catching her up to speed. "You've both been lifesavers. I don't know how – "

She stops talking, but her message is clear: _how we could have done it without you._

It's true that the family seems to have expanded to suck them in.

"I just mean that I know it's been a tough – a terrible – " Liz interrupts herself a few times, then sighs. "I'm really glad you came," she says. "Both of you."

Meredith nods, agreeing, but she's distracted a little – thinking about how Liz came out and found them on the bench and brought Emma back inside, and that's the story, and the fact that Emma was about to go in on her own is lost to the moment the two of them briefly shared.

…

"She's still responding." Nancy is breathing quickly as if she's just been jogging.

"Good." Derek nods.

"Thank you for handling Sarah." She's fidgeting, first looking at her watch and then fussing with the catch on her bracelet. He can't blame her for being anxious.

"Of course." Derek pauses. "She wants to see Joy."

"I know. I don't think that's a good idea right now. I don't want to upset her," Nancy clarifies, although Derek isn't sure whether she means Joy or Sarah.

"Maybe if – "

"Derek, please." Nancy's voice is shaking. "I can't do one more thing. Okay?"

"Of course."

He checks his own watch, wondering how soon he can escape Nancy's accusatory gaze and seek out Meredith and Zola.

"I'm sorry." Nancy exhales sharply. "It's just – it's just been – but Joy is doing well." She smiles suddenly, surprisingly. Widely, all white teeth and the lines carved around her mouth remind him how much they've all changed.

 _Joy is doing well._

It's not – false, but he knows well how Amy would react. Regardless, Joy's increased responsiveness suggests that she'll regain consciousness. When? It's unclear. With what level, if any, of disability? That's not clear either.

Day by day is all they can do.

"Nance." Steve is approaching, throwing a quick look at Derek that he can't quite parse. "Jess is asking for you," he says quietly.

"I know." Nancy starts fidgeting with her bracelet again, still breathing in sharp bursts.

"He's leaving in the morning."

"I know that too."

It's getting late.

Meredith, he knows, is with Zola and some of his nieces, apparently attempting to coax something green into their daughter along with ice cream. And then, as she's assured him, she'll leave for MSC – he counts his way through it like he used to count how much time was left in church before the blessed relief of fresh air and lunch. Meredith will take Zola to MSC and then to the temporary apartment. He'll stay for Joy's last pre-midnight check and then join them.

And they'll sleep. All of them. Together. In a bed.

Meanwhile, Steve and Nancy are at détente, it seems, matching expressions of both exhaustion and determination along with the matching marks on their faces.

They both look at him, as if he has answers.

He distracts both of them instead – maybe all three of them – by suggesting another visit to Joy. Amy's waiting for them, tugging Derek aside as Joy's parents enter first.

"Did you tell Nancy?"

"There's nothing to tell her, Amy. This is good progress."

"After everything I've seen with you. You're still that much of an optimist?"

"Leave it, Amy." He points into Joy's room. "Are you coming in, or not?"

Of course she is; he never thought otherwise.

" _Increased_ response time." There's a glow in Nancy's dark eyes he hasn't seen in a while. "That's a good sign. Isn't it? Derek?"

"It's a good sign," he confirms.

Next to him, concealed by Joy's bed, Amy kicks his ankle. He kicks her back – barely, more like touched her ankle with his own foot, but she turns wounded animal eyes on him like the baby sister she apparently still is.

Amy, to her _slight_ credit, keeps her mouth shut.

Joy, still and white, lies on the bed like a blank canvas. Under the tubes and tapes, the wires, the bandages concealing the part of her skull where her hair was shaved and the pressure on her brain relieved. Her body rises and falls rhythmically, the ventilator in control.

But she reacted.

She reacted to pain.

Pain is life and reaction to pain – is a fight for life. It's a fight toward the light.

That's what he sees reflecting in Nancy's eyes, too, he realizes now.

Light.

The kind at the end of the tunnel. Response is better than no response; increased response is even better. _Joy_ is better.

Let Amy call him an optimist. He knows it's still day by day.

Recovery comes in pieces, the joining of a shattered puzzle. There will be another check before midnight. There has been, and will continue to be, constant monitoring.

 _Day by day_ will be the way for a while. A long while, perhaps, but in Derek's experience … everything looks different with a little light.

…

"You have everything you need? You're sure?"

"I'm going uptown, Derek, not crossing the Atlantic." She kisses him to soften her words. "We also need you … but you're coming later. You _are_ coming later, right?"

"Right." He pulls her close and she lets him, resting her head against him as they watch Zola engaged in serious conversation with one of her older cousins.

"I think she's kept us sane," Liz says, walking over with a board book she's apparently salvaged from between the squeaky plastic couch cushions.

"She's good at that." Meredith smiles at Derek's oldest sister. "Zozo?" She waits for her daughter to look up. "We're going to leave in two minutes."

Zola turns back to her cousins, satisfied.

"I'm impressed." Liz raises her eyebrows.

"I learned it from her daycare teachers," Meredith admits. "They're really into timed warning and scheduling and all that – apparently little kids like to know what's happening next. Helps with the – uncertainty or whatever."

"Big kids too," Derek suggests, and she nods. She's not such a fan of surprises herself.

And sure enough, two minutes later, Zola jogs over to her without complaint. "Daddy's coming too?" she asks brightly.

"Daddy will come later."

" _After_ work," Zola finishes the sentence for her, looking pleased with herself.

"Right." Meredith kisses her cheek, her throat feeling a little thick. She says her goodbyes to Derek's family and then it's just the three of them heading for exit together, Zola in her arms and her bulging diaper bag slung on her husband's shoulder.

"You'll call me when you get home," he prompts as they stand on the corner in the hot wet air. The days are long and sticky. It's full daylight. "Right?"

"Right."

He kisses each of them in turn and then pulls Meredith in for a longer kiss. Zola, apparently amused, tugs on two handfuls of his hair. Meredith is laughing a little when she detangles them.

"You're sure – "

"I'm sure, Derek." She stands on tiptoe, a calf workout with her daughter bouncing in her arms, to kiss him one more time. "Go. We've got this."

"At least let me hail you a cab."

She does. And then she slides into the backseat with Zola on her lap, into the welcome chill of the air-conditioning, and they wave together through the closed passenger window until Derek is out of sight.

…

"You came."

Meredith nods. Mark's voice sounds rough and disused, leaving her to wonder if he and Vivian, who is holding his hand and squinting a little in the brightly lit lobby, have just been sitting silently at Addison's side all this time.

Zola, lulled by the ride, is sleeping on her shoulder as they re-enter the chill of the air conditioning, a relief after the steaming street between taxi and hospital.

Viv eyes Zola with some interest when they first arrive, but disengages quickly. She's hanging back, toeing the pink-and-beige flecked floor with one flip-flop clad foot. Meredith notices that the buddy tape holding the little girl's injured toe to the next one looks white and clean, not the grubby, limp tape of the last time she saw Viv: someone must have changed it.

The rest of her looks much the same, though. Her long hair is fastened loosely into two messy ponytails on either side of her head, and there's a deep, central crease along her t-shirt as if someone's been holding her around the waist. After a moment, her squinting looks less suspicious and more sleepy; Meredith wonders if she was sleeping in her mother's room before her arrival.

The thought makes her sad.

"Hi, Viv." She smiles down at Mark's daughter, who gives her about a quarter of a smile before she turns back to her father, tugging on his hand.

Meanwhile, Mark reaches for the diaper bag and she lets him take it since it seems easier than arguing.

"You said we could go right back," Viv reminds her father, a note of accusation in her husky voice.

"I know." Mark sounds tired, although there's a different look to him, she sees. This is the Mark she's spent the most time with, unlike Derek. The healthier, tanned Mark she met in California was one brief and dimly light night. Here in New York, it's been this man, the one who seems … deflated, his frame oversized but lacking in flesh, his face pale enough to look grey, with the same haunted eyes as his daughter. Still, there's something different.

"How's everything over there?" Mark asks, euphemistically, and Meredith does her best to update him without detail, as she assumes he wants.

"Daddy." Vivian pulls at his hand again. " _Daddy_."

"Stop." He frowns at her. "I'm trying to talk to Meredith."

"But I want to go upstairs," she whines.

"Viv, you have to wait a minute, baby." Mark turns to Meredith. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Meredith smiles at Viv, then shifts Zola in her arms. "We're, uh, I guess we're ready whenever you are."

"You want me to take her?" Mark offers, glancing at Zola.

"No, it's fine. I'm used to carrying her. I appreciate your taking the bag, though."

Mark nods, hefting it a little higher on his shoulder. "Vivi, come on." He holds a hand out for his daughter, who has been peering up at a sleeping Zola, apparently trying to catch a glimpse of her.

"Is Zola okay?" Viv asks, the first words she's directed toward Meredith.

"She's fine, Viv," Meredith assures her. "Just sleeping. I think the cab ride tired her out."

Vivian accepts this, slipping her little hand into her father's large one and letting him tow her toward the elevator. It's not until all four of them are riding upstairs together, and Zola starts to wake in her arms, shifting blearily and whimpering a little, that Meredith remembers her own words:

 _I guess we're ready whenever you are._

The thing is, she may not be a pink-haired teenager anymore, but she feels the same way she felt the last time she found herself summoned to her husband's ex-wife's hospital room: Hospitals, when you're operating? Great. Hospitals, when you're visiting sick people? Not so much.

But there's a sleepy toddler in her arms clinging to her neck, a fidgety five-year-old casting impatient glances at the elevator doors that are separating her from her mother, and Mark in between all of them, casting a shadow across the linoleum floor.

No matter how pink and welcoming the décor at MSC, it's still very much a hospital. And no matter how heartening Addison's survival through surgery, she's still very much a patient.

And Meredith? She's more tired than she realized, maybe a little hungrier, too, despite the sandwich she split with Zola. But what has she been telling Derek, at home but especially these last two weeks, driving it home, insistent?

She's fine. She's pregnant but not fragile, no more breakable than she's ever been. She can handle this.

She tells herself this as they approach a closed door, Zola awake now and gripping her shirt possessively as they walk, Viv moving at as much of a half-run as she can while her hand is captive inside her father's.

Vivian's hand is already on the doorknob when Mark turns to Meredith. "I'll take the girls while you talk?" he offers.

"No!" Viv shouts, louder than Meredith is used to hearing her, apparently not having missed the exchange. Her face is stormy, not even Zola enough to distract her, apparently.

" _Viv._ " Mark pulls her away from the door, not particularly roughly but Vivian is already crying as he tows her around the corner. "We've been camping out in here," he tells Meredith, showing her a pink-tinged waiting room a lot more comfortable-looking than the one at Central-Hamilton, the walls a mix of plump florals and glowing skyline prints. There's a soft-looking blanket on one couch, some books and art supplies and Viv's familiar black and white stuffed panda with the pink stitched smile.

"Stop crying," he orders Vivian as soon as they're inside. "Vivi, come on, I told you, you can see her as soon as Meredith is done. Cut it out."

"You said I could see her." Viv is throwing Meredith treacherous glances, hiccupping as she apparently tries to stop crying. Her little body is shaking from the effort.

" _After_ Meredith sees her." Mark glances up at Meredith as if speaking her name reminded him that she's there. "Believe it or not, she's been an angel when she's in there with her mom," he says ruefully, nodding toward his daughter.

He stops talking, but Meredith catches the clear drift: _not so much when she's not in there._

Zola, fully awake now, shifts contentedly in Meredith's arms. "Vivi's sad," she observes, accurately.

Vivian seems overwhelmed, and Meredith is starting to think that their visit was a mistake.

"Maybe we should come back another time," she suggests.

Viv perks up a little at this, swiping her hand across her eyes.

"No, you came all the way here." Mark looks at his daughter. "Vivi, you need to stop. You can't see Mommy like this anyway."

His warning, which he gives with a small but palpable amount of shame, seems to work. Vivian takes a few big, shuddering breaths, getting her crying mostly under control, while Meredith settles Zola on one of the couches to give them a little privacy, talking quietly to her daughter. Zola responds in typically voluble fashion, her happy chatter interrupts Mark's pointed whispers and Vivian's husky pleas and protests at regular intervals.

"Now can I see Mommy?"

Meredith glances over to see Mark is sitting on one of the other couches, Vivian on his knee. She's stopped crying, though her breath is hitching strongly enough that Meredith can see it from halfway across the room in the shudders of her little body.

Mark is rubbing her back. "Did you see Zola's here?" he asks his daughter quietly.

Vivian glances across the room, nods a little, and then ducks her head against her father's shirt.

"You're shy again?" Mark holds her close for a moment, then stands up with Viv still in his arms. "Okay, baby, I need you to be a big girl," he tells her quietly. "Mommy wants to talk to Meredith for a minute – and then she wants to see you," he adds firmly before she can interrupt. "As soon as Meredith is done."

Viv seems to be considering this. Her thumb drifts toward her mouth. Mark doesn't interfere; he just turns to Meredith, nodding.

So it's a go, then.

What was she saying about being ready?

…

"You wanted to see me?"

If Derek sounds a little surprised, it's because he is. His niece Carly, just before Liz managed to convince all three of her children to leave the hospital, appeared in the family waiting room, where he was patiently going over Joy's prognosis with Nancy yet again – and informed Derek that Sarah was asking for him.

He actually asked her twice, just to confirm, but apparently she was right, because Sarah, who is sitting propped up in bed with her pink casted arm held away from her in a sling, nods.

"Okay." Derek approaches her bedside. "I'm here."

Sarah inhales deeply. "You still want to know what I remember? From the – from the accident?"

Derek isn't sure how to answer that. Yes … and no. He doesn't want to hear it, but someone needs to know it. Information is more than currency, in the Shepherd family. It's current, moving them forward, towing them backwards, tossing them to and fro. It's vital and dangerous, all at once.

And now there's an intense look in Sarah's dark eyes, confirming his earlier suspicions that she always remembered what happened.

"I still want to know," he says. He settles into the seat by her bed. "Tell me."

* * *

 _ **To be continued. Thank you for reading, as always. I cannot tell a lie: I run on reviews. I love hearing from you, and it powers me through to write more, and faster. I'm going to do my best to get the next chapter up soon - and to keep it from being as monster-long as this one. Pretty please, review and encourage me along!**_


	57. outside, digging

_**A/N: Happy new year, all! I'm so sorry this update took so long. I've been working on this chapter for an inordinate amount of time, fussing and stressing and revising and it just wasn't coming together. I'm happy with where it ended up, though, and I really hope you are too. You are wonderful readers - I'm honored that you trusted me with my first real MerDer story and gave me the space to explore a just-slightly-AU version of their marriage and family and the roots of their relationship. I appreciate your patience with my hugely long chapters and the many, many Shepherds.**_

 _ **I hope you enjoy this chapter, which picks up right where the last one left off. If you need a quick reminder: Derek is in Sarah's hospital room, waiting for her to tell him what led up to the Byrne kids' car accident, and Mer's at MSC with Zola, Mark, and Viv waiting to talk to Addison.**_

* * *

 _outside, digging  
..._

* * *

It was Sarah's idea, telling him what happened … but the room is silent for long breaths anyway.

Derek watches his niece finger a long strand of her dark hair with her good hand.

For some reason, it feels wrong to prompt her. So he doesn't.

"Jesse came home," Sarah says then, without preamble, and Derek thinks he was right not to prod.

"We had a night game. Me and Joy. But we came home in between and then Jesse did too. He was just … there." Sarah is looking up at the ceiling. "Dad took his key, and he's not supposed to come home 'til the place sends him, at night. But he was there knocking and then he was banging on the door and – I let him in."

She looks at Derek now as if waiting for a rebuke. "It's his house too," she says, a little defensively, and Derek nods.

"Jess brought this guy. From the place." Sarah wrinkles her nose. "His friend, I guess. … he was creepy."

"Creepy how?"

"Just … regular creepy." Sarah twists a lock of dark hair around the fingers of her uninjured hand. "Like, to me and Joy."

Derek feels a chill come over him. "Did he – "

"No," Sarah says before he can finish. "He just, like … said stuff. He was looking at us and – and Jesse told him to leave us alone."

She takes a deep breath.

"He wasn't supposed to be there; he's supposed to be at the place until ten. My dad got this crazy lock for our door and my mom thinks it's a fire hazard." Sarah rolls her eyes a little and she's a teenager again, with protective parents. Then Derek waits while she chews her lower lip, looking thoughtful.

"Do you know why he was there?" Derek asks gently.

"He said he needed money. Me and Joy didn't have a lot but Mom keeps blackout cash and … Jess was freaking out a little. He said he was going uptown to meet someone. He said the place let him out early, but … ."

Sarah glances at him, her expression suggesting she didn't believe it.

"We didn't stop him," she says. "He took a bunch of the blackout cash. He and that guy, they were both in my parents' room."

Guilt flickers in her dark eyes.

"I think you did the right thing not to try to stop them," Derek says quietly when she doesn't continue.

His niece glances at him for a moment before she continues.

"He said he needed to take the car … he knows how to drive but he doesn't have a permit."

 _Permit._ He's reminded, yet again, of how young all three of them are.

"But he has Seanie's old permit and another one that his friend made and he promised he'd go back to the place if he could just take the car uptown. And if not then he'd have to go meet up with someone he didn't know … it would have been more dangerous."

There's a pause while they both consider _more dangerous._

"Joy didn't want to go with him," Sarah says.

He can understand that, but he's a little confused about why she would. Did he miss something in the story?

"You've driven with Jesse before," he suggests, gently.

Sarah looks back at the ceiling and, very slightly, nods.

"In the country first and then here … just a couple of times." She glances at Derek. "My mom doesn't know."

Derek nods. So many secrets.

"Joy wanted to call Dad but I didn't want my mom to know Jess left the place – she would have been mad. And Jesse didn't want her to know either. He was upset." She looks up at Derek.

 _He was crying_ , that's what Derek remembers one of the twins saying before, when Jesse manipulated them into helping him forge prescriptions. He was around for more than one of Amy's relapses and _he was upset_ sounds familiar; after a while, it stopped working, with all but the softest touches. And they were all adults; he can't expect two twelve-year-old girls to be better at fending off the manipulations of an addict.

"He promised after he saw the guy he'd bring us home and then come back when he was supposed to. But I didn't want him to drive by himself."

Derek nods.

"I told Joy she could have shotgun so she wouldn't have to sit next to the creepy guy. It's my fault she was in the front seat." Sarah looks at him with tear-filled eyes. "She didn't even want to go in the car at all."

"Sarah … ."

"It was hot," she says, interrupting him to continue the story, her tone insistent. "It was hot and Jesse kept – he was telling Joy to make the AC higher but I think it wasn't working. We were going fast. It was hot in the backseat. The vents aren't very good."

She pauses.

Derek notes how the story is becoming slightly disjointed. He's not surprised by the genesis of the car ride – based on what he's seen just on this visit, the web of Jesse's addiction has spun to tug in his twin sisters in various ways. Once again, he finds himself wondering if the arc of Amy's addiction might have been different had she not been the youngest child.

The complicated bonds of siblings: then, and now. He can understand that. He has four sisters and, at one time … he had a brother, too.

…

 _Ready._

Is she, though? Is she ready for this conversation?

Maybe not so much.

Still, she stands with her daughter in her arms, preparing to hand her to Mark. It feels strange, somehow, even though of course Mark has his own child. It's just the watching has only gone in one direction, before.

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Nah. I think I remember toddlers," Mark says lightly, seeming to pick up on her hesitation. "They like drain cleaner and steak knives, right?"

"Oh, yeah. But don't forget the electric sockets." Meredith kisses Zola's cheek.

"Never."

"You're going to hang out with Mark and Vivi for a little bit, okay, Zozo?" Meredith asks, using her daughter's preferred nickname for the older girl.

Zola considers this. "Mommy too," she suggests.

"Mommy needs to do something first. Then I'll come get you. I'm just going to be right down the hall." Meredith points.

Zola's lower lip trembles.

Vivian doesn't look much happier. "I don't want to wait here," she whines, pulling at her father's hand.

"It's just for a little while, baby," Mark says, sounding like this is a conversation he's had more than once. "A couple minutes, I told you. Then we can go back in."

Zola seems to pick up on Viv's anxiety and wraps both pudgy arms around her mother's neck, locking her little fingers together. "Mommy _is_ coming," she says tremulously.

Meredith is starting to think there's no way this is going to work. She and Mark exchange a glance over their daughters' heads.

"Ice cream," Mark announces.

Zola picks her head up from Meredith's shoulder. "Where?" she asks with slightly tearful interest.

"Downstairs," Mark says. "In the cafeteria. What do you think?"

"Yeah, ice cream." Zola sniffs audibly.

Mark takes advantage of the moment – all joking aside, he's clearly no stranger to toddlers – and holds his arms out.

Zola pauses for a moment and then reaches for him, letting Meredith pass her warm little body into Mark's waiting arms.

"Okay, then." Mark smiles at Zola and then holds out his hand for Vivian. "Viv … come on, baby, let's go get some ice cream."

"I don't want to."

Zola looks uncertainly at Viv, and Mark glances from Zola to Meredith, clearly with the same thought that she had: this is no time to lose momentum.

"Viv. Let's go." Mark sounds a little less patient now.

But she pulls her hand away when he reaches for it.

Meredith sees Mark giving her a sidelong glance. "Vivi – if you want to go back in there when Meredith's done, then you need to come with me now."

Viv looks torn and a little nervous as she studies her father's outstretched hand; Mark, meanwhile, looks noticeably ashamed … presumably of the tactic. Her lips tremble.

"You tired?" Mark asks after a moment.

Viv nods.

Wordlessly, Mark squats down, still holding Zola with one arm, and extends the other. Vivian pauses only for a moment before covering the distance between them and allowing her father to scoop her up. Mark stands in one swift movement – during which Zola squeaks with delight – as if he's carrying nothing at all rather than two very unevenly sized children.

Watching this, Meredith is reminded of one of the first times she spent with Mark, when he arrived at the temporary apartment with a pizza and Viv ran to him. She remembers envisioning pizza all over the floor, but Mark caught his daughter then in the same easy way, crediting college sports for his grace.

What she didn't realize then, but is painfully aware of now, is how painfully appropriate that moment was – prophetic, even – that image of Mark, and his life, as a precarious balancing act.

Now Mark glances at Meredith as if to confirm she's still okay with the plan, and she nods back, giving Zola a little wave.

Zola, in turn, beams.

"Vivi will play with me _so_ much," she announces happily, seemingly comfortable from her vantage point high above the ground, her little dimpled arm propped companionably on Mark's shoulder. Meredith can't help thinking, as she looks from her daughter's sunny smile to Vivian's scowl on Mark's other side, that – biology aside – Zola has definitely inherited her father's optimism.

And right now, hand resting on the knob of the closed door of Addison's hospital room, not quite sure what she'll find inside … Meredith wouldn't mind borrowing some of that optimism.

She braces herself.

And knocks.

…

"I don't remember it," Sarah says, her flinch spelling out _the crash_ more than even the words themselves would.

Derek nods.

"I don't know." Her brow furrows slightly. "It was … I think it was loud. There were firemen," she says. "They were talking to me. Asking me questions and stuff. I wanted to get out, but I couldn't get out until the others got out. He was making noise," she adds, "the other guy, the creepy one. He was like … moaning." Sarah looks uncomfortable. "Jesse was kind of crying and Joy wasn't saying anything at all. I had to wait until they all got out of the car."

"That sounds scary."

"It was." Sarah looks at him, tears in her eyes. "There was a lady fireman and she was holding my hand." Her voice slides a little higher, making her sound even younger. "She was talking to me … about tennis and stuff. They put a thing on my neck and said I couldn't move until they cut me out."

It has the sense of a story she'll have to tell many times to process. Derek just listens.

"I wasn't that scared until I was the last one in there and then it was really dark." She pauses. "It's my fault," she says.

"It's _not_ your fault." Derek takes her good hand in his. His niece may be as tall as an adult, but her hand still seems small. Smaller than it seemed when she was whacking him with a tennis racket, at any rate. "You didn't know what would happen."

"We should have called my dad … that's what Joy wanted." Sarah takes her hand back to wipe her eyes. "But I didn't want Jesse to get in trouble."

She looks up at Derek.

" … he's my brother," she says.

…

"How are you feeling?" Addison gestures in the general area of Meredith's bump, the first words she's spoken since _come in._ Her voice is quiet, but steady.

The other woman – the one who's become _Vivian's mother_ so much more in her mind than _Derek's ex-wife_ – is sitting propped up in bed in some … fancier version of a hospital gown. The room is soft and pink like the one she remembers from her visit to Addison's last room at this particular hospital. She's pale, and there's some noticeable puffiness around her eyes and shadows underneath, but considering she was intubated the last time Meredith saw her … she looks pretty remarkable.

"I was going to ask you how _you're_ feeling," Meredith says.

Addison smiles slightly. "Then we can take turns answering."

"Okay." Meredith reaches for the visitor's chair when Addison gestures to it. "I'm feeling … good." She feels guilty as soon as she says it, but the other woman seems pleased, and gestures again for her to continue. "I felt something," she admits.

Addison's eyes widen, apparently without need for clarification. "That's wonderful. It's early," she adds pensively, "but then you're very slim."

"Yeah." Meredith recalls the interactions she's had just in their weeks in New York. "Lately, people love to tell me that. Not you," she adds quickly, "you're a … ."

" … doctor?" Addison looks rueful. "I'm a patient today. And you – are pregnant," she says a little more firmly, "which means that every stranger on the street is going to have an opinion about your body. Even more so than usual."

They exchange a knowing look. "So it's not just me?"

"Definitely not just you. And then you'll have the baby and get critique on strollers, on breastfeeding, on … everything."

Addison's hand is resting on her midsection, the rise noticeable under the thin bedcovers. She glances down, following Meredith's gaze. "It's faster when it's not the first," she says simply. "You can't exactly hide it. You'll see, if you … ." Her voice trails off.

Meredith just nods, glancing at the fetal monitor. "He's doing well," she says tentatively.

Addison nods. "If things were different, I would have had an early anatomy scan last week." Her free hand is still resting on her pregnancy. She glances at Meredith. "You're young. You'll wait until twenty weeks."

Meredith nods, even though it wasn't a question; Addison seems confident about the schedule and she's right, too. Two and a half weeks away. It's marked on the calendar.

Before she can formulate a response, she hears Addison inhale quickly. Meredith looks up; her face is tight. Under the silky-looking loose top she's wearing, Meredith knows, will be drains and bandages from the surgery.

"Are you – "

"It's fine." Addison touches the neckline of her pajamas with her good hand. "I'm fine. I'm taking Tylenol," she adds, and Meredith gets it.

It can't be doing very much.

The physical pain of what she's gone through … she doesn't really want to think about it.

She tries to conceive of a way to say, _hey, was there some reason you wanted to see me?_ without sounding rude or like she's hoping to get out of the room, or … something. Such is the nature of things: she can be more than comfortable in a hospital room, in an OR, as long as it's a patient and she's the doctor. This kind of thing, though?

"Viv's talked a lot about Zola," Addison says quietly, somewhat of a non-sequitur but a merciful one because nothing calms her like thinking about her first baby.

"Viv has definitely been a New York highlight for her," Meredith responds, then feels a little uncomfortable having described this low point in the Sloans' lives that way, but Addison doesn't look offended. If anything, she looks a little pleased.

"I saw some pictures," Addison says, "when Derek was here. Before. She's adorable."

She pauses, and Meredith wonders if she's remembering telling her that the last time she visited.

It's a reminder that of the lifetime they've packed into these two and a half weeks … Addison has missed much of it, somehow the most central player of her own story and absent from it as well.

"I know you were at Schuyler Hill, last week," Addison says. "When I was …." And she raises her eyebrows, which Meredith supposes is a sort of code for _unconscious._

"You remember?" she asks, a little doubtfully.

"Yes," Addison says. "I remember everything, from when I was in the beyond."

"The be – " Meredith stops talking; there's something almost mischievous in the tired lines of the other woman's face. "Are you joking?" she asks.

"Cancer patients can have a sense of humor," Addison says. "Believe it or not. And no, I don't remember anything. Not since the night they brought me in. Mark told me you were there."

Ah. She nods. "I hope I wasn't intruding."

"I wouldn't know," Addison says bluntly. Her mouth is quirking a little again, as if she's amused. "I missed it. You'd have to ask Mark."

"You're joking again."

"Guilty."

There's a moment where they both ponder the word.

Meredith doesn't ask, _why did you want to talk to me_ , though she's no more clear on the answer than she was when she walked in.

"Mark told me you met my mother," Addison says.

Meredith nods.

"Sorry about that." Addison's expression makes all too clear what she thinks of her mother. Meredith didn't spend much time with the formal-looking older woman, but certainly enough to guess from her demeanor that she wasn't exactly a warm parent.

"My mother wasn't such a … role model, either," Meredith admits.

Addison takes this in, nodding.

Meredith waits as another pause takes over. She can't help feeling like they're – beating around the bush, or whatever: all these topics that can't be why Addison summoned her here.

"Something's happened."

Meredith looks up. "What do you – "

"Not to me. I mean, something else. Mark won't say." Addison looks down at the blankets around her again. "His hand." She flexes her own hands; Meredith notices they're bare of jewelry, presumably from her surgery. "He hit someone," she clarifies when Meredith doesn't respond.

She's still silent, not sure of her role.

"It's fine," Addison says. "You don't have to tell me, just … ." She pauses. "It wasn't Derek, was it?"

"No," Meredith says immediately, "of course not."

Addison exhales. "I knew that. I was almost positive, I just … wanted to make sure."

Meredith nods – she gets it, but it's not her place to say more. Mark might be right that hearing about what happened to Nancy's children is too much for Addison right now … and he might be wrong. What she knows of Mark's perennial balancing act is that it's difficult. More than difficult. She's learned nothing in two weeks if not that.

"You must think I'm a terrible mother," Addison says abruptly.

Okay. So no more beating around the bush or whatever.

…

"I want to see Joy," Sarah says.

"I know."

"My mom won't let me see her."

"I know."

"We share a room," she continues, as if her uncle isn't aware, wasn't privy to the final undoing of Jesse's addiction in that very room, the drawers of that princessy unit pulled open to reveal its secrets. "We don't have to but we do anyway. Sean's going to college next year and Emma doesn't even live at home anymore at all so we don't have to share. We _want_ to share."

"I know," Derek repeats quietly.

Sarah's quiet for a moment, toying with the edge of the pink cast on her injured arm.

"Uncle Derek?"

He nods, encouraging her to go on.

"If Joy dies … I'll die too."

She says it without any melodrama, as if it's a medical fact.

"Sarah – "

"We're twins," she says. "That's how it works. That's how come no one else would help my mom have us, except Aunt Addie. Because if something happened to one of us then it would happen to the other one, too."

Derek tries to sort the strands of this, how much is a misunderstanding of the myth surrounding the twins' delivery via Addison's controversial dual VBAC and how much the trauma of their current situation.

"Sarah," he starts again but she interrupts him once more.

"I _know_ we're not identical," she says, sounding a little irritated, more like her more-or-less-teenaged self. "It doesn't matter. We're still twins."

"Joy's not going to die," Derek says. "And neither are you. Not for a long time."

Sarah doesn't respond for a while, twisting the same strand of hair around her fingers. "Can you take me to see her?" she asks finally. In this moment she sounds very young, the child he remembers from his previous life in New York: _Can you take me to the park? Can you get me a popsicle? Can you make Jesse share?_

The ask is greater; the child is the same.

The problem is that it's not up to him.

Sarah's not done with her requests, and the next one tightens his stomach: "Can you ask them? Please? Can you ask my mom and dad if I can see Joy?"

…

 _You must think I'm a terrible mother._

Addison's words – spoken quietly and without any overt inflection – hang in the air for a moment.

"I don't," Meredith says.

"You're very kind." Addison gives her a rueful sort of smile. She pauses, seeming to be thinking about something. "There were only two choices," she says finally. "I could have terminated, or I could have kept the pregnancy. There was no … third option of not having cancer."

After the last two weeks of euphemisms and trying to protect Vivian's sensibilities, it's almost – refreshing to hear the words spoken so openly. _Terminated. Cancer._

Meredith just nods, not really sure if a response was required.

"It's like abortion," Addison says. "For an unwanted pregnancy, the best solution would be just not to be pregnant in the first place. Right?"

Meredith nods again.

"But that option is gone once you're pregnant. So you keep the pregnancy, or you don't. That's it. I would have chosen the third option if I could have. I would have chosen no cancer at all." She's looking down now, studying the blanket around her waist.

Meredith looks at her downcast face, hidden in part by her hair. She doesn't see much of Vivian – Viv's stronger resemblance to the old photographs of Mark she's seen on this trip is very clear. But there's something about Addison's direct way of speaking, in this moment, that reminds her of the little girl they've cared for.

Addison looks up. "I couldn't choose," she says. "I couldn't choose, and then I could, but it was too late."

Meredith's confusion must register on her face.

There's a long, audible breath. "The surgery," she says, then pauses. "You know about Faith?" she asks quietly.

The second baby they lost. The one Vivian described to her in that humid womb of a locker room after her meltdown in the pool. Meredith nods.

"I don't remember it." Addison's voice is quiet, her tone pensive, as she studies the blanket in her lap. "I know Viv was with me and I remember some parts of that day, but not – right when it happened. This time, though?" She looks up at Meredith. "This time I remember. The night I was admitted."

She pauses, seeming to be gathering herself.

"I was … short of breath," she says softly, and Meredith recognizes the edges of the story she experienced from the other side. "It wasn't a big deal but then it was, and Viv was in bed with us so she woke up when we did and her face – "

Addison stops, clearing her throat.

"She was scared." Her voice is laced with guilt. "She was so scared. She was crying and she kept asking, _what's wrong? Mommy, what's wrong?_ and Mark was yelling at me not to talk since talking made it harder to breathe and – and you don't want to hear all this, I'm sure." Addison's tone different now, a little rueful.

"It's okay," Meredith says.

"I was conscious. That's my point. I was conscious and I saw her face and I decided I was going to treat the cancer. Have the surgery. I couldn't talk, not really. I couldn't tell Mark, and, well." She gestures as if to say, _all this._

The rest of the story: the days she was unconscious, her decision to have the surgery once she woke up – a decision she'd apparently made earlier, but no one knew.

Meredith thinks about what Derek told her – about Mark's power of attorney, about his ability to authorize the termination and treat the cancer, and his ultimate decision not to. He must have been thinking it's what Addison would have wanted.

Her mind swims with a new impossible choice – or a newly impossible part of an old impossible choice.

"I didn't want to choose," Addison says quietly, "between my children, and I know how that sounds, because Vivian is _here_ and Isaac is, well … he's not. But I didn't want to choose. Once I chose, it was almost too late, except he's still … here."

She pauses, and then coughs. Meredith reaches automatically for the cup of water on the blond wood table by her side. Everything is so _homey_ here, purposefully so, and as Addison sips the water Meredith notices the little pewter picture frame on the side table. It's sitting among some other personal effects - a child-sized sketchbook and some loose crayons, presumably Viv's, some kind of embossed silver coin on a chain, a small peach-colored tube of lotion.

Addison sees her looking. "The picture? Viv brought it," she says. "It's a little out of date."

She reaches, but winces a little; Meredith sees what she wants and passes her the little pewter frame. Addison studies the picture with it for a moment, then holds it out for Meredith to see. She already knows the shot well – it's the frame Vivian carried with her from the Sloans' townhouse to the Shepherds' temporary apartment, a sun-faded snap of a younger, beaming Addison holding a round baby version of Vivian.

Then Addison is studying the picture again. "I had no idea," she says. "About anything, really, then, but if I'd thought – "

She stops, not finishing her sentence, but she gestures vaguely toward her hospital room.

 _I had no idea._

"Why are you telling me this?" Meredith asks. She's genuinely curious, hoping her tone doesn't offend.

Addison looks down at her hands for a moment. "I'm not sure," she says when she looks up. "Well. That's not completely true. You've spent so much time with Vivian – and I'm so grateful."

Meredith nods.

Addison takes another sip of water, then sets the cup down.

"Now I have a question for you," she says quietly, holding the picture in both her hands now. "You don't have to answer it, of course."

"Of course."

"You're pregnant. You're exactly as pregnant as I am."

Meredith nods.

"What would you do – to save him?"

"I don't know," Meredith admits.

"Neither did I," Addison says. "Until I did."

..

Derek makes his way slowly back to the family waiting room; he doesn't relish raising Sarah's request with her parents, but he promised her he would.

They might not even be there, that's his rather childish reassurance to himself, they might be elsewhere dealing with their other two children, but there's no such luck: Nancy and Steve are both in the waiting room, talking to each other; Derek catches strands of what sounds like updates on the other two and then they both stop talking, seeing him.

"Is Sarah – "

"She's okay," Derek says.

"Thank you for talking to her." Steve's voice is ragged, his face showing signs of exhaustion. He's been so stolid in Derek's experience that it's somehow surprising, even in this situation, to see him register such physical signs of stress. The closest he can imagine is the twins' risky delivery, but even then, he can recall asking Addison when she stepped out to update them, how Steve was doing: _he's Steve,_ that's what she said then, half ruefully and half admiringly, and he took it to mean that his brother-in-law's own fears and concerns were buried someplace they wouldn't interfere with supporting his wife and not-quite-born children.

Now, though … now his face makes it clear, and not just from the bruise Mark left in his wake.

Derek just nods.

"What did she want?" Nancy asks.

Derek considers any number of euphemisms and then changes his mind: "She wants to see Joy."

"No." Nancy's shaking her head. "Not like this."

Derek sees Steve and Nancy exchange a glance; presumably, this is something they've discussed, and Steve doesn't protest.

Nancy gives Derek a slight smile, too shaky really to be called a smile, and then she's looking at her husband again. She touches his face carefully with one hand – it's her left, and her rings catch the fluorescent lights overhead. "I still can't believe he did that," she says.

"Honey, it's okay." Steve sounds as tired as Derek has ever heard him, but there's an undercurrent of shame as well. "I deserved it."

"No, you didn't," Nancy says sharply, standing up a little straighter like she's energized by her anger. "As if _Mark_ is the arbiter of who deserves what! Or have you forgotten … ." She stops talking, perhaps realizing how unlikely it is that anyone has forgotten.

She turns to Derek. "He'd better be gone," she says, which seems somewhat untimely since the incident feels days ago already.

"He's gone," Derek says, leaving out Mark's crack about Nancy's having the police on speed dial … like so many aspectsof his former life, it's a little too close to the truth for comfort these days.

"Good." Nancy nods for emphasis. "I don't want him involved with Jesse's care."

Derek glances automatically at Steve, whose face is impassive. "That's up to you," he tells his sister.

Nancy huffs a little, then glances at Derek again. "How's Addison? Did you get an update?"

It doesn't surprise him – it _should_ , perhaps, but after two weeks and then the endless hospital waiting period he's remembered his sister more than he ever intended. He's learned that her tendency to turn on Addison and Mark … and then turn to them … and then turn on them again … hasn't changed much in the intervening years.

But Nancy's interest in Addison's condition seems genuine – she did spent Addison's difficult surgery in the OR monitoring her unborn child.

"She seems to be doing well," Derek says.

"Good."

It's the same word she used to describe Mark's exit. Somehow, it seems appropriate.

Nancy leaves to go back to Joy's side, giving Derek a quick wary glance before she leaves both men alone together.

"How's Sarah?" Steve asks again when it's just the two of them, the same question as before but with an unspoken _really_ this time.

How's Sarah, _really?_

"She blames herself," Derek says quietly.

"Herself," Steve repeats with some measure of disbelief. He shakes his head. "No. There's enough blame to go around … no."

Derek nods; Steve looks preoccupied now

"Twenty-five years." Steve is staring at something Derek can't see. "One night, and my family is destroyed."

"It's not."

"How do you measure?" Steve asks, his voice calm now, even pleasant. " _One_ of my children isn't here, in this hospital – one of five. And the others … ."

He stops talking. He's staring at his own hands now,. Derek looks too, glancing from the left with its thick gold wedding band to his bare right hand. He's flexing the right hand slowly, watching its movement.

"Your family isn't destroyed," Derek says quietly.

"What is it, then?" Steve asks, looking up.

"It's … changed. It's different." He's thinking of Meredith. "It's trying to survive," he says. "All of you are trying to survive." He pauses, remembering his niece's words now. "Sarah wants to see Joy. And I know you're worried about how she'll react, or that it will – upset her more, but she's already upset, and she wants to see her. I think she needs to see her."

 _Needs to_ , it's blunter than he would have said were Nancy here to snap at the idea of anyone telling her what to do with her children, but Steve just listens quietly.

And then he nods.

…

Meredith checks her phone automatically as she walks down the hall, but she finds her daughter – and Mark's daughter, and Mark – in the same little room where they all sat earlier. Vivian and Zola are sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor, both looking intently at the iPad in Viv's lap. From the soft sounds they're watching something about animals.

Mark, sitting on the couch above them with his head resting in his hands, looks up at Meredith's arrival.

"Mommy!" Zola calls with delight before he can say anything, clambering to her feet and running across the room to greet her.

"Zozo," Meredith matches her daughter's enthusiasm if not her volume as she lifts her up for a kiss.

"Everything was okay in there?" Mark asks, getting to his feet somewhat stiffly to join them.

Only Vivian stays where she is, sitting on the floor with the iPad in her lap, one thumb in her mouth. She's quiet, but Meredith can see she's watching them.

"Everything was fine," Meredith says. "Thank you for watching Zola." She leans around her daughter's warm wriggly body to address Vivian. "Viv – thank you, too, for playing with Zola."

Vivian looks up at her, her thumb still in her mouth, her eyes solemn, and doesn't say anything.

"Thank you," Mark says, "for coming up here, and … ." His voice trails off. "For everything," he says. "You and Derek, you didn't have to – "

He stops talking, clears his throat. "Thank you," he repeats finally, his tone gruff in that way that tends to forestall emotion, and she nods.

"It's pretty late," Meredith says, checking the time. "We should go."

Mark nods, glancing at his own watch. "We can walk you back," he offers.

Meredith opens her mouth to politely decline but doesn't get the chance.

"No, you said we could see Mommy as soon as Meredith was done!"

It's the first Viv has spoken since Meredith's return. She's glaring at them from her spot on the floor, her thumb inches from her mouth as if she's just removed it for her outburst.

"Vivi." Mark rubs at the side of his neck where, based on his wince, his muscles are sore.

"You don't need to walk us," Meredith says quickly, before their disagreement can become a confrontation. "It's really fine. It's not even two blocks." Meredith shifts Zola in her arms, thanking Mark as he helps her sling the diaper bag across her body without setting her daughter down.

She finds herself pausing in the doorway. What to say – goodbye?

It seems so oddly final.

She settles for _good night_ and is half turned when she hears Vivian call out.

"Wait!"

Meredith turns around.

Viv is on her feet now, her tiptoes actually, whispering something to Mark with her hand cupped around her mouth.

"What is – oh, yeah." Mark straightens up, one hand resting on the top of his daughter's head as she leans against his legs. "Viv wanted to ask you something," he says.

..

 _Regulations_. That word again. This time it's not sedating his teenaged niece – which Derek raised with Steve in a quiet moment, to an expected reaction. It's the wheelchair the hospital insists on to transport Sarah to her twin sister's PICU bed. Derek expected her to protest, but he hears nothing from inside the mostly-closed door of her hospital room, where Steve is talking to her while Derek and his sisters wait outside.

Then again, he also expected Nancy to protest taking Sarah to see her sister, but that was also a surprise. _It's time_ , that's what Steve said, and Nancy just nodded wearily.

"Does Sarah know what to expect?" Amy asks quietly, tilting her head toward Nancy.

It's a loaded question, of course. Nancy and Derek exchange a glance.

"You want me to talk to her?"

Derek braces himself for Nancy to snap at Amy's question, but all she does is nod again, wearily. Amy disappears into the half-open door before Nancy can change her mind, pulling the door closed behind her.

Derek isn't privy to the conversation between Amy and Sarah, but when the door opens again, all three people who emerge look very serious. Amy is pushing Sarah's wheelchair – a development that makes sense since Sarah is holding tightly to her father with her good hand, her pink casted arm resting in its sling in front of her.

It's Steve's right hand clasped in his daughter's, Derek notices. The one he was staring at when they spoke in the waiting room, flexing its fingers back and forth distractedly. The one that struck Nancy.

Nancy is there too, crouching down in front of the wheelchair speaking with Sarah too quietly for Derek to hear. She kisses her daughter's forehead before she stands up, and then gestures to Amy that she'll take over the wheelchair.

"I can – "

"No, it's fine." Nancy's voice is tight. "Thank you," she adds, gripping the handlebars of the chair tightly, and Amy accept it without even a hint of a crack about those unfamiliar words from her older sister.

Derek and Amy stand together, watching, as Nancy and her husband and daughter grow smaller down the hall, on their way to see Joy.

"How do you think it's going to go?" Amy asks after a moment, not looking at him.

"I think it's going to be hard," Derek says simply.

When he looks at her, Amy's lower lip is caught between her teeth, a gesture he recalls from their youth – he used to wonder what it meant: surely Amy wasn't trying to hold back words. Amy didn't censor herself. Not to them, anyway.

His sister is looking down at the tile floor and when she looks up at him her eyes are sheened over with tears.

"Amy – "

Then she's crying, not hearing him, and Derek glances up and down the busy hallway before he takes his sister's arm and leads her back into Sarah's empty hospital room.

"It's okay," he says, thought the words sound hollow. When Amy covers her face with her hands he wraps an arm around her instinctively. The resulting half-dance is somewhat awkward and involves the top of Amy's skull colliding uncomfortably with his collarbone. He holds her anyway, feeling her shudder against him, and when she draws back she's half laughing, half sobbing as she shoves the heels of her hands against her eyes.

"Sorry," she says as Derek rubs the sore spot on his bone from hers.

"I'll live." He reaches for the pink box of tissues on Sarah's side table and hands a few to Amy.

He's not really sure what caused the outburst – pent up stress, whatever her conversation with Sarah entailed – and maybe doesn't need to know, as Amy dries her face.

"So much pain," she says – so softly, Derek almost doesn't hear it.

"Sarah, you mean?" he asks, a little confused.

Amy pauses, then nods. "Sarah, yeah. And Joy, and Nancy and Steve, and … everyone." She looks up at him. "Because of Jesse, because of his addiction."

"Amy – "

"That's what I did too," she continues, interrupting him. "Just left – bodies everywhere. Isn't that right?"

"Not quite as literally," Derek says before he can stop himself. He doesn't mean to be flip, not really, but Amy's eyes widen.

"Maybe Nancy's right to hate me."

"Amy."

"She hates me a little less now, maybe, since she's busy hating Jesse, but she'll find the room. Nancy can always find the room to hate me."

"Amy, _stop_ ," he says sharply.

She looks up, her eyes wide and a little surprised at his tone.

"Feel sorry for yourself later," he advises her, then regrets how irritated he must sound when the hurt registers in her face. Amy's always been mercilessly easy to read, since his parents first brought her home from the hospital and every cry for food or attention or a new diaper played a different tune. When she was small and always into his things, always in the way, there was no slight or rejection too small to flicker visibly across that blank little heart of a face.

Amy hasn't changed so much: she's not so tough even with surgical credentials and more than one spiral and bounceback from her addiction that she's not still perfectly readable.

"I wasn't feeling sorry for myself," she says, some of her old self in her defensive tone. "I don't."

Maybe they're all their old selves here, woven back up in the complicated quilt of their first family. He is himself, of course, and has the luxury of seeing through his own eyes the adult versions of needy, loud Amy and stubborn Nancy and sensible Lizzie. What epithets must his sisters attach to him?

"I know," he says wearily. He considers apologizing but knows it will just sound forced. "Forget it," he says instead.

Amy shoves some stray wisps of hair out of her eyes. They hang back down again when she's done. _Messy_ , that's another epithet for his baby sister. She was always sticky with something: melted lollipops or grime or the remnants of the bubble gum she'd steal from Nancy's knapsack and then vehemently deny even as pink rubbery shreds clung to her lips.

 _So much pain_ , that's what Amy said. Derek tries to think of what to say in response.

He could tell her she's not wrong – Jesse has left pain in his wake, both physical and emotional, the obvious and some that probably hasn't even manifested yet. Pain that's ricocheted among the Shepherds and the unrelated people he'll never know, the family of the other passenger in the car.

She's not wrong that she left pain in her own wake, too. Her addiction, from its beginnings in the Shepherd family home, the crumpled remains of Derek's car and Nancy's prescription pad and Amy's relationship with her sister. The second time, the one that exploded into pieces around their niece's oceanside wedding, causing Nancy to turn not just on Amy but on Addison and Mark as well. The third time, the time he's only learned about on this trip, the one that could have cost Vivian her life. Pain big enough to seal up an entire floor of a landmark townhouse.

Amy is watching him.

So yes. She's caused pain.

Not so much pain that the rift between her and the Sloans didn't close up when they needed her during Addison's illness. Not so much pain that she didn't hover protectively near her older sister during Joy's exams, that she couldn't prepare Sarah for her sister's unconscious state or take the role of go-between when Nancy refused to face her own son.

Derek considers the word, _pain_ , and its tangible aftermath. The muted celebration when Joy registered just that: pain. Feeling pain is feeling life and their niece's ability to experience it was the most hopeful sign yet of an eventual recovery.

Pain, then, is the best news they've received since the shock of the accident.

Amy's still watching him expectantly, waiting for him to say … something, and he could share all of that with her except he's fairly certain it wouldn't make any sense to anyone but himself.

"… you're okay," he says finally, breaking the silence, and it sounds inadequate maybe – what he might say if Zola took a minor tumble on the playground.

Amy exhales audibly when she hears it, though, as if it's meaningful – and he thinks maybe it wasn't the worst choice after all.

…

There's something about leaving the hospital – leaving it while someone else stays behind.

When you leave the hospital … things are real. You leave, and you come back.

She knows this, and the reality of it turns her pensive as she carries her daughter down the hall to the temporary apartment that's become their sometime-home.

Inside the chill of the air conditioning, Meredith sets Zola on the kitchen counter to pour her the juice she's requested. Just a splash, diluted with water, and she wonders how long they'll be able to do things like that: distract Zola, dilute sweets, convince her of things that they're doing to keep her safe.

Zola sips the watered-down apple juice with gusto. Meredith watches her, wishing she could freeze time. It's a cliché, sure. But for a reason.

Setting down her juice, Zola puts one of her little hands on either side of her mother's face. "You're _not_ sad," she instructs firmly.

"You're right." Meredith turns her head to kiss one soft palm. "How can I be sad when I'm with you, Zozo?"

"Yeah." Satisfied, Zola releases her and then gestures to be picked up. "Daddy's working?" she asks brightly as Meredith lifts her off the counter.

 _This is normal_ , Meredith reminds herself. It's her daughter's normal. Two weeks, bits of days – counted in 24-hour spurts like fetal development – and Zola has settled in.

Is it really so much more abnormal than their lives in Seattle? To Meredith, certainly. To Zola, with access at all hours to either of her parents and a gaggle of devoted new admirers, the strangeness doesn't seem to register.

"Yeah," she says. "Daddy's working."

They move together through Zola's nighttime routine – she's tired but getting a second wind as she darts through the temporary apartment. "Grammy's room," she recites, pulling Meredith by the hand into the large bedroom. "Vivi's room," she says next, as they visit the smaller junior bedroom with its puffy pink comforter.

Zola looks up at her. "Mommy's not here," she says.

"Last night, you mean," Meredith prompts gently.

Zola nods.

"That's right, Mommy and Daddy stayed at the hospital and you had a cousin sleepover, didn't you?"

"Yeah, here." Zola points to the puffy pink bed in the junior bedroom. "Ooh!" Her face lights up and she pulls away from her mother to fish something out of the carpet.

She brings it to Meredith – a little pink hair tie of coated rubber.

"It's _Vivi's_ ," Zola says reverently, holding it out. Meredith takes the hair tie at her daughter's request, a bit gingerly. It seems generic at first, and she knows there were several teenaged girls with their own hair ties sleeping over the night before … but there's a long, fair strand of hair caught up in the pink tie, marking it as Vivian's rather than one of the brunette Shepherd girls'.

"She forgot," Zola prompts, taking the hair tie from Meredith and examining it closely again. There's something clinical about the hair clinging to it, making it look almost like … evidence, and Meredith finds herself shuddering as she detaches it from her daughter's fingers.

"We'll give it to her next time we see her," Meredith assures her daughter over her protests.

"It's _mine_ ," Zola sniffs. "Vivi said Icould have it."

That seems unlikely – though Meredith has no doubt Viv would have handed over the hair tie at Zola's request, and maybe even an organ or two.

"Just leave it for now, sweetie. You have lots of your own hair ties, don't you?"

 _Why are you pushing this?_ But there's something disconcerting about the sad little tie, despite having seen the child in the flesh earlier tonight, so she hefts Zola onto her hip and takes her to the living room to distract her with a movie. _I'm that mom_ , she reminds herself, even if she's hoping the movie will calm her enough to –

She freezes.

"Mommy." Zola pulls on her shirt.

"Hang on, Zozo – yeah, here we go, your baby brother just kicked."

"He did?" Zola's face brightens. "My turn," she demands, reaching for her mother. They settle on the couch in an affectionate tangle to give Zola access to the baby.

"Kick again," Zola orders her mother's midsection. She pauses. "Please," she adds politely.

Meredith hides a smile.

"Mommy, make him kick," Zola wheedles, her brow furrowed, and Meredith finds herself amused to be refereeing what might be the first dispute between her two children.

"He'll kick again, Zo, but right now maybe he's resting."

"He's resting?" Zola sits back, considering this. Then she pats the cushion next to her. "He can rest with me," she offers.

Meredith blinks back surprised tears. _Hormones_ , that's all. "You know what, sweetie, he's going to stay inside Mommy a while longer while he grows. He can rest in there."

Zola thinks this over, then cuddles close, resting her cheek over Meredith's heart. "Me too," she says, and Meredith just pulls her closer, wondering how it's possible that so many clichés were true after all – including the ones about hearts _bursting open_.

…

Right now, he can't believe he ever thought the temporary apartment they rented was dingy or depressing or anything other than sheer bliss. Stale air conditioning washes over him as he closes the front door and the kitchen, when he goes in search of cold water, is sticky with apple juice that could be fingerprinted to his daughter.

It's perfect.

He drinks half the bottle in one greedy gulp, replenishing himself from the relentless heat outside.

And then quenches his metaphorical thirst padding quietly into the master bedroom, where his wife and daughter are sleeping curled into each other, Zola's sweetly audible breaths competing with her mother's relatively light snores.

Derek just watches them for a moment, loathe to wake Meredith when it's been such an exhausting few days, but her eyes flutter open of their own accord.

"Hi," she says huskily, a smile spreading across her face.

"…hi." He speaks the syllable into her hair; she's already eased away from Zola's slumbering form sufficiently for Derek to pull her close. He's inhaling the familiar scent of her, as desperate for it as he was for water, feeling some of the hospital tension drown out of him at last.

Carefully, he holds her away from him. "How was it?" he asks quietly.

"It was okay." She reaches up to touch his face. "How was … your it?"

He smiles a little at her phrasing. "It was okay," he echoes.

For a moment they just look at each other. One of his hands drifts over the curve of her waist. Her t-shirt rides up a little and his thumb catches on skin still warm from sleep. A powerful rush of need goes straight to the core of him – like she has from the very first time.

"Derek," she says softly, arching an eyebrow.

They look together at the bed that holds their sleeping child and then they move as one, gathering the baby monitor and setting it up in the attached master bathroom before they lose themselves in clouds of steam.

"I missed you," he murmurs against her slick wet hair, part admission and part request and all statement of sheer commitment. She gives herself to him, as generous with her body as she is with her other gifts: her heart, her uniquely sharp mind, her ability to master one crisis after another, to calmly support him and everyone else she loves.

"What is it?" she asks gently when he stops to frame her face with his hands, pausing the pulsing need that drives him to look into eyes for a long, silent moment.

"I love you," he says, even though it doesn't sound like enough, but there's no way to express the gratitude he feels, the _thank you for my life_ that's coursing through his veins.

She laughs a little, that musical laugh he loves, and twines her arms around his neck as water sluices between their bodies. "I thought you were going to tell me something I didn't know," she teases, and her light tone makes his throat tighten at the miracle of its truth.

That this is where they are now.

That her trust is another gift she gave him, after he skidded through mistakes after mistake in the beginning, fearing he'd lose her, but he didn't.

Gratitude courses through him. For taking the leap into parenting with him, for carrying their child in the warmth of her body. For all of it.

"Derek …?" Her cool fingers trace his jawline, a hint of concern in her tone.

In lieu of answering he sweeps her up, lifting her against his body, and she laughs with surprise. Her laughter subsides and her eyes darken as he holds her tightly, drawing her as close as two people can be. She sighs a little then, her head tipping back so that the water runs through her long hair.

"Yes?" he asks, teasingly now. "Did you have a question?"

"No." She smiles down at him, her fingers sliding into his hair. "No questions at all."

…

After, lying side by side in the big bed, their fingers entangled, while Zola sleeps curled against Meredith's other side, they fill each other in about their respective hospitals.

"Your family's missed you," she says softly after he tells her about Amy. They're keeping their voices down, though Zola is sleeping with all the subtlety of a little helicopter with no sign of waking before morning.

"They could have come to Seattle," Derek mumbles. "If they wanted to see me."

"Like Nancy did, that one time?" Her tone is gentle, but serious. "That was a visit, and a visit … is different. You know it's different. They're all here with these _lives_. You used to be here too, in their lives – here. That's what they miss. All of you, together."

He doesn't respond. She shifts her hand a little – it's so much smaller than his, but from his angle she manages to envelop it.

"I … made a new life," he says finally. "I shouldn't have to apologize for that. I have a new family."

"You don't have to apologize for that," she says firmly. "Not ever. Definitely not to me, but not to them either."

"Good." He shifts their handhold again, stroking her smaller one within his. "I love that you're so … understanding of them. But I don't want to lose time with you," he admits. "With you, or Zola, or … ." He rests his other hand on the growing bump that holds their son.

"I know and I love that about you, but it's only been two weeks, Derek. A little more than two weeks."

For a moment they both marvel, silently, at how much has been packed into those two weeks.

"I'm just saying … you can give them some time," she encourages gently. "it doesn't take anything from us – from me, or Zola, or … Junior … for you to give them some time. For us to do it. We still get the best of you. And, Derek?"

He waits for her to continue.

"They're our family too, now."

He rubs his thumb over the warm skin of her palm.

"So I think we can share you, a little," she says. Her voice is soft, like an embrace, but it's also final; it lulls them both to sleep.

…

"So Jesse's leaving in like an hour and Nancy's not budging and Steve is totally useless," Amy says bluntly, no preamble, greeting them at the elevators before they can get to the family waiting room.

"Good morning to you too," Derek responds.

"We're running out of time, Derek. We run out of time … and Jesse goes to rehab thinking Nancy hates him."

"Amy …"

"It's hard enough, rehab, when your mom doesn't hate you." Amy turns to Meredith. "We had the perfect mom," she says mournfully.

"Amy, she's not dead," Derek says shortly.

"I mean, _have,_ not had," she amends, "we have the perfect mom, and it didn't keep me from becoming an addict."

Derek shakes his head. "Is there a point here?"

"And Nancy's a basket case. And Derek is emotionally unavailable."

"Not to me," Meredith says, frowning. "And not to Zola," who perks up at her name, smiling.

"Well, he blew up his first marriage."

"I think that was Addison and Mark who did that," Derek says mildly, too used to Amy's rambling to be truly offended. "Amy, if you _do_ have a point … it would be great if you could get to it."

"Um … I actually can't remember," she says after a moment. "Just – you know, that Nancy needs to see Jess."

Derek shakes his head again. Planting a kiss on Zola's cheek, he hands her off to Meredith, who takes her in the direction of the family restroom.

Then he turns back to his sister. "What do you want from me?" he asks. His tone isn't hostile, just – realistic, he thinks. He's never successfully convinced Nancy of anything, as far as he can recall.

"I don't know." Amy sips from the paper cup of coffee in her hand, then holds it out to Derek. He shakes his head distractedly. "Talk to Nancy," she suggests.

"If Steve can't convince her, I'm certainly not going to be able to."

"Steve's not Steve. Not anymore. He feels too guilty to convince Nancy of anything," Amy says. "Lizzie filled me in," she shrugs when Derek lifts an eyebrow in her direction.

He waits for Amy to say something – uncensored, tactless, something _Amy_ about the whole affair, but she's silent instead. Briefly, she rubs her jaw.

"Amy …."

"Derek, this is it. _It_ it. Jesse's going to rehab, it's locked down, he's gone for thirty days. A month. A whole month! Forget what it'll do to Jess. Think of Nancy. You know how she breathes down their necks, all five of them, you think she's going to be able to go thirty days without losing her mind?"

"She'll have to."

"Not if she says goodbye now, she won't. _Derek._ " Amy turns her face up to his. "Just – come with me."

That … he can do.

Amy leads him to the family waiting room – they're the first ones there, it seems, Lizzie having convinced her children to sleep in actual beds the previous night and taken Carolyn with them. It's early, still.

Meredith and Zola are ensconced on one side with a book, reading together. He gives them a little wave.

On the other side of the room, Nancy is pacing the short distance between Steve and the wall.

"Derek, don't you start too," she says tightly as soon as he approaches.

So much for subtlety.

He lifts both hands, keeping his tone mild. "I'm not starting."

"Good." She stops pacing and folds her arms, then glances at Steve. "I'm not going in there."

Steve doesn't respond, just rubs his forehead wearily. If either husband or wife slept the night before, there's no evidence. Nancy's clothes are wrinkled – Nancy, who always looked immaculate and perfectly tailored – her face almost gray with pallor. There are dark circles under Steve's eyes.

"I'm not," she repeats.

"Nancy," Steve says finally, his voice cracking a little.

"No." She folds her arms tighter as if she's hugging herself. " _No._ I can't."

"You can," Steve counters, his tone gentle. "He's our son, Nance, he's our son and he's going … away … and you can. You can go in there and say good-bye."

Nancy studies her shoes for a long moment and then looks up, her expression a challenge, from Derek to Amy. "I suppose you have an opinion too?" she accuses. "That you know all the answers?"

"I don't know the answers," Derek says quietly. "I do know Jesse wants to see you," he adds, because it's true – he heard it himself.

Nancy swallows hard at this, visible in the lengthy column of her neck. _Giraffe_ , Kathy hurled that insult at her once when they were fighting over something – clothes or makeup, they wore the same size back then, and Derek recalls that Nancy locked herself in the bathroom to cry. It all felt very teenaged girl dramatic to him then, he must have been eleven or twelve because his father was still alive, he was the one who scolded Kathy from defensive to apologetic, _words hurt_ , he said, Derek and Mark both overhearing his lecture, _you have to use them carefully._

He's lost in the memory for a moment and when he looks up, Amy has fixed her gaze on Steve.

"She needs to see him," Amy says quietly.

Derek winces a little, but Nancy doesn't strike. Steve just shakes his head slightly, his attention focused on his wife.

"Steve," Amy says with more intensity this time. "She'll regret it if she doesn't."

Derek has a brief flashback to the lobby of their temporary apartment building, when a scowling Vivian refused to say goodbye to Mark before Meredith took her swimming but then, as her father started to leave with Derek, panicked and ran after him. _You didn't say goodbye_ , he can hear it now, accusingly, in her husky little voice.

Vivian is a child and Nancy is an adult, a doctor. A married mother of five.

But maybe regret is the same at any age.

"Nancy." Amy directs her pleading eyes to her sister now. "Just go see him."

Slowly, she shakes her head. She seems too tired for anger. "What am I supposed to say?" she asks, her voice scratchy; Derek supposes she must have been crying though her eyes are dry now. "Joy could have died." Her voice tightens. "She still could."

Derek and Amy exchange a glance; it's the closest they've seen Nancy to acknowledging her daughter's still-precarious state. Joy is showing signs of improvement, gratifying signs, but still.

"Jesse too. Jesse could have died too," Amy says urgently. "He could have, Nance, but he didn't."

She shakes her head.

"Go see him, Nancy." Amy takes a step closer to her sister. "Tell him you know he's better than this. It's his lowest point – good thing about low points – it means you have nowhere to go but up."

 _You would know_ , another Nancy might have hissed in the past, but all this one does is shake her head again, her eyes pained.

"I can't," she whispers.

"You can," Steve steps in to encourage her, his tone still gentle. "I'll go with you. You can do this, honey, I'll be there too."

"No. You go."

"Nance …" Steve rests a hand on his wife's arm and the air in the room changes.

Derek looks from one of them to the other, prepared to intercede, while Amy glances uncomfortably at him.

"Stop," Nancy hisses, glaring at them. "Just _stop_ with the – stop looking at him like he's a – a rattlesnake or something, like you're waiting for him to do something. Stop it!"

"All right," Derek says quietly, his tone conciliatory; Nancy's tone was sharp enough to draw attention from the other side of the room. He can sense Meredith's gaze but he hears her musical voice still reading to Zola, keeping her calm.

"Nancy … it's okay." Steve has his arm around her and he's speaking quietly against her head. She rests a hand on his chest for a moment, just – breathing, and then turns back to her siblings.

She props both hands on her hips, her expression the old bossy one they both know well.

"He's more than this," she says. Her voice is steady, devoid of anger but still intense. "A lot more. You've known him for twenty-five years, both of you, and you don't get to just – you can't just throw it all away. Steve is more than his worst moment."

"And so is Jesse," Amy says.

Her words hang in the air for a moment.

Derek waits for Nancy to snap, to fight back.

But she doesn't.

Looking up at Steve, she nods slightly. "… okay," she says, a tremble in her voice. "Okay. I'll go."

…

But it's not a simple as that, Nancy discovering a dozen things she needs to do before then, talking to Joy's nurses and asking after Sarah and twisting her hands anxiously as she paces the family waiting room. Steve is patient with her, they all are, waiting for her to settle and be as good as her word.

"Nance," Steve says gently after another of her circuits around the room. "His transport's coming very soon. If you're going to go – "

"I _know_ , honey." Nancy sounds distracted. She turns abruptly toward the corner of the room where Meredith is sitting with Zola, calling her name. "When's your anatomy scan?" she asks without preamble when her sister-in-law glances up.

"Um … in about two weeks," Meredith says calmly, and Derek admires her ability to answer as if it's a normal question.

"Two weeks. … right, of course. You're not AMA." Nancy studies Meredith for a moment. Zola clambers up to her feet on the couch, leaning against her mother with interest.

Derek glances at Amy, who shrugs in response. So she's lost too.

"Early scans are so useful, though. There's a push to lower the minimum maternal age." Nancy keeps talking as if she's instructing a group of residents.

"Nancy," Steve says quietly. "Honey, why don't we – "

"Do you want to see him?" Nancy interrupts. She's still looking at Meredith, her dark eyes intense.

"See him?" Meredith repeats, sounding a little confused.

Derek is confused too. Does she mean Jesse? But why would Meredith –

"I have privileges here." Nancy's speaking very quickly now. "Three of the staff OBs were my fellows, it won't be an issue."

Oh … see _him._

Not Nancy's son, but their son.

"Nance." Steve is looking at his watch. "We don't have a lot of time."

"I can be fast." Nancy avoids her husband's gaze, looking from Derek to Meredith.

Steve glances at Derek, out of Nancy's line of vision, then turns back to his wife.

But Nancy in turn has fixed her gaze on her niece, her tone bright. "Zola! How would you like to see the baby, sweetheart?"

"Nancy," Derek says quietly, not thrilled with this tactic, but she ignores him too.

"Yes, see the baby!" Zola claps her hands delightedly, then pauses. "Where?" she asks, and as Nancy points meaningfully toward Meredith's midsection and Zola's eyes widen with fascination, Derek looks up at his brother-in-law.

Whatever this battle was, it's clearly lost.

…

Nancy's as fast as she said she would be, at least, taking Meredith behind the curtain of an exam room while Derek, with Zola in his arms, Steve, and Amy stand just outside it.

"My baby's in there," Zola reports to Steve with great anticipation. The room is small enough, and the two men standing close enough, that Zola can reach out and tug on the peeling corner of the visitor's badge on her uncle's shirt.

"Zozo." Derek reaches for her little hand.

Steve smiles down at her as if he's just noticed.

"It's okay," he says, and Derek wonders if the reverse is true of his own experience: yesterday, he looked at Steve's daughter and felt the pain of seeing his own child's future in her. Is Steve looking at Derek's daughter now and thinking of his own daughters when they were small?

It wasn't so long ago, really, that Joy and Sarah were the Shepherd toddlers, passed from one affectionate adult to the next, tugging with small hands at eyeglasses and necklaces and drinking in the attention.

"I need it," Zola says, interrupting his thoughts. "I need a sticker." She points to the visitor's badge.

"Zo – "

"You need one, huh? Then you'd better take this one." Steve looks amused, carefully detaching the sticker from his shirt and offering it to Zola. She looks at it but declines to take it with her hand, instead puffing out her little chest so her uncle can apply the sticker directly to her shirt.

Brow furrowed, she takes her time smoothing it out, then turns in Derek's arms. "See, Daddy?" She points to the sticker.

He expresses the appropriate level of admiration and his daughter, now prominently labeled _S. Byrne_ with yesterday's date in blue sharpie, beams in response.

"Thanks!" she tells Steve happily before Derek can suggest it. He smiles at her in return but Derek sees a brightness in his eyes; he clears his throat a little before turning away and then Nancy is calling out to them, pushing back the curtain.

Derek only has eyes for his wife now, who is lying on the exam table with her head propped on a pillow, a sheet covering her legs. She shoots him a look somewhere between amusement and bemusement, one expressive eyebrow lifted.

"I should – " Steve gestures toward the door, looking a little uncomfortable.

"It's fine," Meredith says. "I mean, no pressure if you don't want to stay."

"Stay," Zola repeats, probably thinking more of cajoling her parents on their way to work but the word hangs in the air, and Steve doesn't leave, though he trains his eyes away from the exam table.

"Ready?" Nancy is actually smiling, and everyone focuses on the screen now. Derek shifts Zola to one arm and takes one of Meredith's hands with his free one as the black and white image flickers to life.

"… and there he is." Nancy's tone is warm but her words are unnecessary: he's as recognizable as if they've already met him. His throat thick, his wife's hand clasped in his as his daughter grips his neck, he stares at the screen.

His son.

Their son.

Glowing in profile, a flick of the transducer and there are the curves of his legs; he's moving, in motion all the time.

"He looks good," Derek can't help saying, a burst of pride and excitement all at once. "He does look good, right?" he asks his sister.

"He looks _great_ ," Nancy says warmly, laughing a little when she starts to point out his little feet and he thrusts one of them forward, as if he's saying hello.

"Look at him go," Meredith whispers, squeezing Derek's hand.

"Where's he going?" Zola asks, tugging on her father's collar.

"He's not going anywhere. He's right here, look. It's your baby brother, Zozo." Derek kisses the side of her face. "See?" He points to the screen.

Zola squints with interest, maybe remembering the other ultrasound on their New York trip.

"Look at that!" Nancy is laughing now, and then everyone is, as the little life outlined on the screen punched a very recognizable fist.

"He's certainly active." Steve is smiling; Nancy glances up at him, a private look passing between them that Derek can't quite discern.

"My baby!" Zola beams, pointing. "See?"

"You're already _such_ a good big sister," Nancy coos. She shoots Derek a look that, for Nancy, is almost – apologetic. For manipulating them into the scan using Zola, presumably, but he just shakes his head a little at her in response, letting it go.

" _My_ baby," Zola repeats, sounding pleased as she ducks her head against her father.

Meredith squeezes his hand again, and he squeezes back.

"Oh, he definitely has your nose," Nancy says thoughtfully to Meredith.

"You think?"

"No question."

She takes another moment to look at the screen and then everyone does. Derek studies his sister for a moment, Nancy with her sharp edges and sharper tongue, every one of the years separating them visible in her tired face.

Nancy who is about to say goodbye to her son, and wanted to say hello to _his_ son first.

Wanted … or needed.

Steve glances at his watch, then rests a careful hand on his wife's shoulder. "Nance … ."

She looks up, seeming almost dazed despite her easy, confident hold on the transducer. "Okay," she says slowly. "… okay." She turns her gaze on Meredith and Derek.

 _Needed_ , he decides, she must have needed to see the ultrasound because something in Nancy seems stronger now, like she's standing a little straighter.

They work as a team, Amy drawing the curtain so Meredith can clean up and adjust her clothing while Derek speaks quietly to Zola and Nancy returns the equipment.

They pause outside the door of the room to separate.

"We'll, uh, we'll see you after," Derek says quietly, hanging back with Meredith. Steve nods, looking grateful, one of his hands resting over Nancy's where it's tucked in the crook of his arm. Amy takes a step back to give them privacy but then Derek sees Nancy's free hand fumbling, reaching down to take the hand of her shorter sister.

"Come with us?"

Nancy sounds hesitant, almost young. Unlike herself. Derek can't see Amy's face, only the back of her, but he can recognize the surprise in the set of her shoulders. All she does, though, is nod.

And then, as Meredith and Derek stay behind with Zola, fresh images of the baby they haven't met yet lighting up the corners of their minds, Nancy, Steve, and Amy walk down the hall, hand in hand, slowly growing smaller and smaller.

"You didn't have to do that," Derek tells Meredith when they're alone. He wraps his free arm around her.

"I know. I wanted to. Plus, we got to see Junior." Meredith leans her head against him. "He was that small once too," she says quietly. "Jesse, I mean."

Derek pulls her a little closer. He wants to say, _but this is different, our children are safe,_ but it would be a lie. What was it he told Meredith the night he came back from Nancy's townhouse?

 _I think I'm afraid to have teenagers,_ that's what he said.

He thinks about Meredith last night, her reassuring presence and familiar voice: _they're our family too, now._ It doesn't take anything away from them, that's what she said, away from the three-almost-four-of-them, to be tangled in the web of his family sometimes. His big, messy, complicated family.

 _Their_ family.

Their son who gave Nancy the strength to see hers.

And Derek, too, is a son. Truthfully, he hasn't felt this much like a son in years. In longer than that. Here, in New York … he's a son.

The import of it hits him quietly, but firmly, as the realization coalesces for the first time. That he has another stop to make, on this trip.

But he doesn't share it. Not yet.

Right now, Meredith is quiet, leaning against him, and Zola is too on his other side, and he doesn't want to break the stillness. Their daughter either recognizes some gravity in the moment or is just sleepy, but either way her peaceful breaths are the soundtrack as he holds onto the most important things in his life.

* * *

 _Okay - 13K words later, and we're through the last hospital chapter. Next chapter is the first one to take place completely outside any hospital in quite a while. My hint is that we're moving forward just a couple of days, the trip is coming to a close, and where they're going and what they're doing ... well, that's going to have to wait until the chapter is posted, but I can tell you I've been planning it a long time._

 _I've been planning a lot of this chapter for a long time. I hope you enjoyed it, and I really hope you'll review and let me know what you thought. I love hearing your reactions and I feel very spoiled by how much response I've gotten to this story ... so just know how much I appreciate it. If you've never commented before but you've been reading, I would love to hear from you! Regular commenters who keep the writing gas in my laptop engine, or whatever? Seriously - thank you so, so much._

 _See you soon for the next chapter!_


	58. promise

_**A/N: This story is ALIVE. I'm back and I want to thank everyone who inquired about it during its unplanned hiatus. I can't lie: even though this story is 58 chapters now, I was still stunned when reviews climbed over the one thousand mark. Stunned and humbled, so THANK YOU for being wonderful and responsive readers. Finishing a story this long and involved is hard ... and bittersweet. But here's the next (very, very long) chapter, the first one completely outside the hospital in a long time ... maybe ever.**_

 _ **I hope you enjoy this chapter.**_

* * *

 _promise  
..._

* * *

"Are we there yet?"

"You tell me," Meredith suggests.

"Mm. No." Derek rests a hand on the steering wheel, answering his own rhetorical and rather purposefully petulant question. What he's not sure about is whether _yes_ or _no_ is the preferred answer for this particular trip.

The once-traveled roads feel unfamiliar under the wheels of the rental car. They've left the city behind, again, but then – what's more Manhattan than leaving Manhattan for the island in the dead of summer?

"I never liked this drive," he admits.

"You usually don't mind driving," Meredith observes neutrally.

"I don't, if I want to go where I'm going. The Hamptons…" He shakes his head. "It wasn't where I would have chosen."

It feels like a lifetime ago, when summer weekends were spent on the reedy East Coast shoreline and summer Fridays fighting endless swarms of traffic to get there. He's grateful at least that it's midweek right now, that they're moving at a relatively decent clip instead of bumper to bumper on steaming blacktop.

Meredith doesn't respond. He casts a quick glance her way to see she's looking slightly out the side window, maybe contemplating the view. She turns as if she's felt his gaze and rests a hand on his thigh.

In the rearview mirror, Zola is dozing in her carseat. She's still wearing the cute orange headphones, meant for children, provided by the rental car and attached to the little screen that they're hoping their daughter will forget by the time they get back to Seattle.

The heat seems to have broken – the worst of it anyway, or the air is getting cleaner as they travel along the island. They're actually moving, which helps, and their slightly lowered windows produce a welcome breeze.

He never thought he'd be back here.

Then again, he never thought he'd do a fair few things again that he's done on this trip.

Maybe _never_ is stronger than he thought.

...

"Is this it?" Meredith is angled forward in her seat, squinting a little into the sun. She checks the printed directions as Derek slows down the car. By the time he rolls to a stop, he can just make out copper numbers on the posts outside the long, curving drive.

"This is it."

He parks on the crunching gravel drive, with no time to survey the house before Zola, awakened by his parking, kicks her feet to demand release. Meredith shades her eyes as she steps down from the rented SUV to help him retrieve their daughter. Her lightweight shirt pulls across her torso and he pauses for a moment to admire the slight curve of her where their son is growing.

Outside, it's sunny – in a different way from the relentlessly sticky heat of the city. Hot, but not oppressive.

He lifts a half-awake and rather fussy Zola from her carseat, bouncing her a little as he used to when she was a baby to calm her down.

Then he spots something that might cheer her up.

"Zozo," he says, nudging her gently. "Look who's here."

Vivian is running across the manicured lawn, barefoot, in a red and white striped bathing suit. He sees Mark following her at a more reasonable pace; he lifts a hand in greeting from a distance.

"You came!" Viv looks as close to happy as he's seen her, smiling up at Zola.

Zola wriggles to get down as soon as she sees her older friend. "Vivi!" she announces, beaming. " _Vivi's_ here," she reports to her parents with delight.

"That's right." Derek sets his daughter on the grass. "This is Vivi's house."

"Not Vivi's house," Zola says indignantly, pointing to the sprawling shingled home, set back on a vast, sloping lawn of manicured grass. "Vivi's house is made of _blocks_."

It's a surprisingly apt description of the outside of the Sloans' imposing limestone townhouse. He has to give her some credit.

"That's my other house," Viv says casually, not an ounce of guile, as Derek exchanges an amused look with Meredith.

Zola stuffs a finger in her mouth as she gives the comment some thought, then beams at Viv again, any post-nap crankiness miraculously vanished. "Okay," she says cheerfully.

"Okay," Meredith repeats, sounding amused.

"Zozo," Derek prompts, stroking the top of her head, "did you want to say something to Viv?"

Zola, who practiced insistently and enthusiastically for the first half hour of the drive, now looks at him with wide, puzzled eyes. Then she tugs at her mother's hands, apparently remembering she's just woken up from a nap; Meredith lifts her up and Zola clings to her as if the affront of her father's question has exhausted her.

Derek looks down at their little hostess, whose long, damp hair is escaping her ponytail and who, while watching Zola with interest, is emanating that most summery of blended scents: coconut and chlorine.

"Happy birthday, Viv," he says.

"Thanks." She looks at him for a minute. "I'm six now," she adds.

Derek remembers that despite the very adult situations she has had to endure, Vivian is still very much a child. So he expresses the appropriate amount of impressed surprise at her advanced age, and is rewarded with a crooked half-smile in return.

"Vivi!" Zola turns her head from where she's been hiding it in her mother's shoulder, apparently prepared to resume socializing. She stares at her long-lost friend for a moment. "Down," she orders, wriggling.

"Want to see my pool?" Viv asks as Meredith sets an enthusiastically nodding Zola on her feet.

"Can I come too?" Meredith asks quickly, slinging the pool bag with Zola's swimmies over her shoulder and keeping pace with the girls.

As Viv leads them both confidently across the lawn, Derek lags behind accidentally-on-purpose. He's seen Mark taking his time strolling up, though keeping Vivian in his sight line, and has some sense perhaps he'd like to talk to Derek alone.

By the time Zola and Vivian – walking hand in hand rather adorably – and Meredith have grown small, Mark is covering the last of the grass between them.

"Hey," he says as he approaches. He's wearing sunglasses that are too dark to see his expression, and he pauses with his right hand midway up as if not sure whether to offer it to Derek.

There's a millisecond where Derek wonders if he should offer his own, and then another when he considers the rationale of either reaction when the two opposite poles are true: the last seven years of distance, and the last few weeks of unexpected closeness.

Mark shoves his hand in the pocket of his shorts instead.

"You made it out here," he says.

"We did." Derek tracks the small figures, who've mostly disappeared now. "How is – everything?" he asks tactfully.

Mark nods, then pauses. "We made it out here too," he says after a moment.

With a bang; Derek suggests as much, tactfully.

"Yeah." Mark looks slightly embarrassed. "It worked out better that way. It's a lot of time in the car for her, and she wouldn't have been comfortable. This way it was quick, you know."

Derek nods. It's another one of those stories that reminds him of the interlocking webs of Manhattan professional and social lives: the neighbor with the helipad, the hospital trustee arranging for private landing. The chief of oncology at MSC summering a ten minute drive from this very house, just in case. It's all a very city kind of logistics that seems, in this case, to have paid off.

"We would have had to stay in the city otherwise," Mark continues after a moment. "And she really wanted to come out here."

Derek's not sure whether he means Vivian or Addison. Either way, it's interesting to think of the Hamptons – a journey that often felt artificial, and nearly always obligatory – as an object of longing. Not to Addison, he supposes, if his recollections are accurate. Or Mark either, for that matter.

"How are the kids?" Mark asks.

No need to ask which ones.

He updates Mark on Nancy and Steve's children. With Jesse in his mandated rehab – the one that will save him from facing criminal charges – and Joy downgraded from _critical_ to _critical but stable_ , Amy sticking close, and Sarah discharged to the care of aunt and cousins, the chaos that began with the phone call that night has started to fade into a new sort of normal. Joy will need significant rehabilitation herself, he's fully aware of this based on his own medical experience, but her youth and the brain's remarkable ability to repair itself suggest that his niece's _new normal_ will be closer to _normal_ than they previously feared. It takes time, with this kind of injury – Mark nods with understanding here, even leaving aside the significant physical damage she endured – but time is different from chance. _Time_ is something two doctors can accept, even if they are parents. Derek's last phone conversation with both Nancy and Steve supports this, and Mark's reaction now does as well.

He's listening attentively; there's no sign Derek can see of any leftover hostility after his interactions with Nancy and Steve after Jesse's consult. Derek notices that Mark has less of that fleshless, haggard look that startled him during that first fateful meeting in the bodega near the temporary apartment. He's still bonier than Derek has ever seen him as an adult, shoulders jutting through the thin material of his tee shirt, and there's no question recent stressors to their family have marked his old friend, certainly, but he still seems somehow more solid – with less of that ghostly quality.

"What about Sarah?" Mark asks.

The least injured, but with her own trauma.

"Physically okay," Derek says, "but I think she blames herself for the accident."

Mark turns his head for a moment, looking out at the house and the grounds beyond it. "It's not her fault," he says.

"No, it isn't," Derek agrees, but they both know that's not enough to fix anything.

 _Send Mark and Addie our best,_ that's what Nancy said into the phone when she learned where Derek was headed. She was distracted – of course – asking briefly after Zola and mostly speaking with more anxiety about Joy's prognosis and progress. But her well wishes sounded genuine, if automatic, another iteration of the fight-and-forgiveness cycle that seems to characterize so many of Nancy's relationships. If she remembered the angry words she hissed at Mark after his encounter with Steve in the hospital waiting room, nothing in her tone indicated it. Life, as his mother reminded them, is long.

And so: "Nancy sends you her best," he repeats now, dutifully.

One of Mark's eyebrows lifts just slightly, visible past his sunglasses.

"Her best, huh?" Mark rubs the scruff on his jaw thoughtfully. "So not what she was throwing at me the other day, then."

Derek doesn't respond.

"I guess I did clock her husband." He looks down at his hand, stretching it experimentally.

"Any damage?" Derek asks.

"Nah. Nothing you'd notice." He glances at Derek. "Pretty sure Addison thinks I hit you."

"Me." Derek raises his eyebrows at the absurdity. "How does she figure that?"

Mark shrugs. "I didn't tell her the whole – thing." He gestures vaguely toward nothing in particular, which presumably stands in for Nancy and Steve and their children. "About the accident," he adds.

Derek nods. He's aware there's a complex calculus involved in how the Sloans divvy out information – different from, but no more straightforward perhaps, than the one used by his family of origin.

"Addison delivered the twins," Mark continues, perhaps thinking Derek needs more reassurance of his decision. "Wrote that article and everything." He pauses. "I can't believe that was twelve years ago."

"Almost thirteen," Derek says, faintly amused that he's the one making that correction. _Can you believe the twins are turning thirteen?_ Nancy asked him during that first dinner what feels a lifetime ago. At the time it was news to him; now, with Joy's survival less precarious, it feels – if not inevitable – at least likely again.

"Yeah." Mark rubs his jaw again, looking thoughtful. There's some color to his skin now that was lacking in the greyish pallor he noticed in Manhattan. Mark always tanned easily and quickly; he remembers his mother puttering around the fairer children – Derek and Kathleen were more likely to freckle and burn than their dark-eyed sisters, and Amy too once she came along. That was how it went: everything was categorized in his family. In big families everywhere, maybe.

Like Nancy's.

How will Jesse be categorized now, he wonders, and the twins?

 _Thirteen years ago._

He recalls that day – having summoned it to describe to the twins only a couple of weeks prior. Babysitting Jesse, waiting for news from Addison on how Nancy was doing, while his mother corralled the older two. It was a vortex, then, and he was complaining – not exactly – but he looks back and can see the way he caught up in the web of the family. That he took his first real deep breath in too long when he drove across country.

Both men are silent for a few moments.

"Joy's going to recover," Derek says when Mark doesn't speak. "She's making good progress."

Something in Mark's expression reminds Derek that _good progress_ is still hard.

"How are Nancy and Steve holding up?" he asks.

Derek isn't sure how to respond to that. "It's hard," he says finally. "You know."

"Yeah." Mark is looking toward the house now; even without the dark glasses, Derek wouldn't be able to see his expression. "I know."

…

Viv leads them confidently to the backyard, Zola's hand wrapped sweetly in hers. Meredith follows behind, swim bag slung over her shoulder.

Okay, so she's not sure what she's expecting from the rest of the property, but she's also not sure she expected all of … this.

It's nice.

 _Nice_ nice.

As in magazine nice. Not how she could ever picture Derek living, even though she knows it's not the same house he used to own. Lots of jewel-green grass, meticulously trimmed, a pristine – and empty – swimming pool with broad curving steps, a series of canvas-cushioned teak lounge chairs and a large wicker semicircle of sunwashed couch surrounding the water.

"Vivi's pool!" Zola says with delight. She gives Meredith a serious look. "My swimmies," she reminds her firmly.

"I have them, Zozo." Meredith pats the bag hanging from her shoulder and Zola nods with satisfaction.

The large pool looks undisturbed, though Viv's damp hair and distinctly chlorinated scent suggest she's been swimming.

 _My pool_ , Viv called it, but it's startlingly neat for a child's home, too – her parents are either skilled at getting Vivian to put her things away or just put them away for her; she spots a discreet canvas basket near the pool with some colorful water toys protruding from the top.

"Let's go," Zola suggests, patting Meredith's leg encouragingly and then slipping one little hand under her polka-dotted tee shirt as if to reassure herself her bathing suit is still underneath.

Viv is hesitating for some reason; Meredith isn't sure why, but she points toward the other side of the property. "What's over there?" she asks.

"I'll show you." Viv beckons with some measure of relief and they follow her across the grass to a winding path where a row of artfully scrubby hedges suggest there's sand on the other side. A private beach? She can see it as they walk further – sloping sandy access to the calmly burbling edge of what she assumes is the sound. It smells summery out here: suntan lotion, sea salt, a wet-wood scent she assumes comes from the teak of the lounge chairs. A fat bumblebee buzzes briefly near her ear.

"Let _me_ see," Zola demands, holding up both arms, and Meredith lifts her up. From her new vantage point on her mother's hip, one little foot brushing against the bump where her baby brother is growing, Zola surveys the beach with approval. "Lake," she murmurs.

Vivian doesn't seem in a rush to get back to the pool, so Meredith buys some time, asking her about various things in her sight line – the striped buoys in the water, the overturned sea kayak on the sand, the tennis courts just visible on the other side of the house beyond a thicket of honeysuckle.

Viv stands on her tiptoes to point over the fence, her long, messy ponytail dangling down. Her hair has dried in pieces with that characteristic chlorine stiffness. When she turns around, Meredith notices freckles on her face and a sun-kissed color she hasn't seen before, making her look altogether healthier than the last time she saw her.

What she doesn't see Addison, and she doesn't intend to ask, but Viv casts her a sidelong glance.

"My mom is here," she says. "Inside."

Meredith nods.

"She's coming back," Viv says pointedly.

"Vivi!" Zola claps her hands. "I _need_ to swim."

Meredith can't help but smile at that. Zola's very liberal use of that verb is endearing, even when it arrives with a sob to describe how very much she wants to stuff her tiny fingers into an electrical socket or pry a piece of used chewing gum from the sidewalk.

"Vivi," Zola says again, her tone urgent, and Meredith braces herself to be scolded for not immediately plunging her daughter into the inviting pool waters. But: "It's your _birthday_ ," she says instead, smiling widely, apparently remembering the message she wants to convey. As if to underscore her point, she wriggles to get down and then wiggles her toes experimentally in the grass.

Viv looks a little shy. "Yeah … yesterday," she says, toeing the grass with one bare foot; Meredith notices that the buddy tape she affixed weeks ago now and someone replaced fairly recently is gone. She notices Meredith looking. "It's better now," she says.

"Good."

Viv traces a pattern in the grass with the other foot, then looks up at Meredith again. "My dad says the tape only helps for a little anyway and then it doesn't."

She ponders what this means – if it's healed or not, and whether there's a difference between Mark's approach and her own.

Then she hears the squeak and release of a screen door and turns to see activity across the flagstone path, where the large shingled house starts to give way to the back of the property. Viv shades her eyes for a moment, watching, then turns back to Meredith.

"It's my mom," she says.

"Your _mommy_ ," Zola repeats with breathless anticipation, tugging on Meredith's hand.

Viv looks from Meredith to Zola. "You're supposed to be really quiet," she says softly.

Meredith feels a pang at the anxious look on Vivian's face. "We'll be very quiet," she assures her, "and Zo and I don't want to bother her, so maybe we'll just – "

"Daddy!" Viv yells suddenly, breaking away from them before Meredith can finish and taking off down the lawn toward something she can't see.

…

"Daddy!"

Derek looks up to see Viv jogging breathlessly across the grass; she grabs Mark around the legs when she reaches them. "Mommy's out," she says urgently. "She's out now."

Mark glances at Derek. "Okay." He moves some of Viv's messy hair away from her face. "Just give her a sec, baby, and then we can see her – hey." He pauses. "What did you do with Meredith and Zola?"

"They're in the back," Viv says, looking a little embarrassed when Mark frowns at her.

"You left them by themselves?"

"Meredith is a grownup," she reminds him.

"Yeah, and she's our guest."

Viv scowls a little at his look, and Derek can't tell how much of what's happening is down to what seems to the Sloans' rather high expectations of Vivian's mostly-very-good manners and how much is Mark buying time for whatever it is Addison needs before her daughter descends.

"Sorry," Viv says sulkily, taking a step back from her father. Her little brow is knitted and she's squinting into the sun. It's relentlessly bright out here, away from the trees.

Mark studies her for a moment, then produces what looks like a small pair of sunglasses from his pocket and proffers them to his daughter. She studies the offering for a moment before taking them from her father's palm and carefully slipping them onto her face. White plastic with heart-shaped lenses, they look jarringly cheerful on her usually solemn face.

"Better?" Mark asks.

Viv nods distractedly, then reaches out to tug on her father's hand, apparently having given up on waiting.

" _Now_ can we go?"

"Okay, Vivi." Mark shoots Derek an apologetic look and a cock of his head suggesting Derek should follow, then lets Viv tug him across the grass. He keeps hold of her and Derek notices he manages to slow them both down until they get to the back of the large property, where a youngish woman in scrubs approaches them.

"Dr. Sloan," the woman says, pausing to glance at Viv before she continues, directing her words to Mark: "She's all set."

So no more waiting, then.

…

"Where did Vivi _go_ ," Zola asks again, more firmly this time.

"To find her daddy," Meredith repeats. It's their call and response since Viv tore away from them and now she's in the odd position of – hiding herself and Zola, somewhat, in one of the Adirondack chairs facing the beach. It's not that she's concerned about seeing Addison, but she knows how highly Vivian values her time with her mother, and that she has wanted to show Zola to her. Taking either of those moments – a first glimpse of Addison on their visit, an introduction of Zola – seems somehow wrong.

So they sit together in the chair they took when Viv left, Zola kneeling up companionably on her mother's thighs, alternately patting her cheeks with her sticky little sunscreened hands or pulling at Meredith's long hair, until she hears Derek calling her name.

"There you are," he says as first her head, and then Zola's, broaches the top of the chair.

"Yeah." She passes a wriggly Zola to her father before she stands to join them. "It's a big place," she says by way of explanation.

"That's an understatement." Derek reaches out to brush a lock of tangled-by-Zola hair from her face. "Viv wanted me to get Zola," he says. "Addison's outside."

Addison is indeed outside – propped up, as Meredith can see when she gets closer, at safe distance from but facing the pool, in an oversized Adirondack chair with soft-looking cushions underneath her and a blanket covering her lap. Her posture and the loosely-fitting top she's wearing – some kind of wrap between robe and beachwear – suggest post-surgical drains.

She must be in considerable discomfort based on what Meredith knows of her procedures and her unwillingness to soften a painful procedure with narcotics. Oversized dark glasses cover her eyes and much of her face – but not so much that Meredith can't see her smile as she speaks to her daughter. Viv is standing before her with the anticipatory posture of a puppy, Mark's restraining hands on her shoulders keeping her a few steps back from her mother as they talk.

Vivian appears too consumed with her mother to notice their approach.

"Are you better?" she's asking in her husky little voice and Meredith is surprised, and a bit troubled, but realizes Viv must be referring to whatever sent her into the house earlier.

Addison's large sunglasses block out her expression.

"I'm fine, sweetheart."

She's clearly not fine, but everything must be relative here.

Meredith watches as Addison starts to reach out her hand toward Vivian and flinches noticeably.

"Addie," Mark warns, shaking his head. "Be careful."

They're both wearing dark sunglasses but Meredith could swear they exchange a glance; maybe they can see each other's eyes even if she can't. Marriage holds some mysteries like that, she's learned from her own.

Viv looks from one parent to the other.

"Did you go back in the pool, Vivi?" Addison asks. Her voice is a little hoarse – presumably an aftereffect of surgery, but it makes her sound a bit like her daughter.

Vivian shakes her head, the force of her long hair apparently turning her enough to see their guests. When she turns, Meredith sees she's wearing heart-shaped sunglasses. Zola doesn't miss this.

"Vivi!" she calls happily. "You have _hearts!_ "

Viv smiles at this. "Do you like them?" she asks.

Zola nods vigorously and Viv turns to her father. "I told you," she says.

"You were right." Mark fishes in his pocket again and produces another pair of small, heart-shaped sunglasses, this one pink. "Viv said Zola needed them," he explains to Meredith and Derek.

"I need them!" Zola agrees hurriedly, reaching for the glasses, consenting to a quick and heartfelt _thank you, Vivi_ , and then attempting valiantly to hold still while Derek sets them carefully on her little face. Bedecked in the pink sunglasses, Zola beams at her collective audience, then seems to notice they're not alone.

She turns her head slowly, taking in for the first time Addison in the high-backed chair, and the two women in scrubs a respectful distance away.

Viv crooks her hand at her younger friend and Meredith sets Zola on the ground, holding onto her just in case.

"Zola … that's my mom," Viv says proudly.

Zola tips her head back, studying the new person. "Vivi's mommy," she says thoughtfully, as if she's piecing together a puzzle.

"Hi, Zola." Addison is smiling broadly enough to push her large sunglasses higher on her cheeks. "I've heard a lot about you."

Zola leans against Meredith's legs but offers a shy smile back and a whispered _hi._

Viv is looking from one of them to the other and Meredith's stomach tightens a bit; it seems Viv has built this moment up in her mind and Meredith's not sure the reaction if it doesn't meet her expectations.

"Zozo," Derek intercedes, his tone casual, "did you have something you wanted to give the birthday girl?"

Zola snaps to attention then, hastening to the large bag they brought with them and removing, with great ceremony, a large plush dolphin that she refused to wrap to the point of shrieking when they tried. They gave her leeway to select the gift; it occurs to Meredith that Zola might have some childishly innocent recognition of Viv's needing warmth in her life.

Or maybe she just likes stuffed animals.

"It's a _shark_ ," Zola tells Viv breathlessly, with more excitement than accuracy, as Mark and Addison look on in amusement, "a squishy one." She takes back the dolphin and hugs it hard around the middle to demonstrate, then proffers it to Vivian once more.

"Thank you," Viv says. "It's great." She gives the dolphin a few experimental squeezes, Zola watching with the intensity of an MCAT proctor, and then hands it to her father.

Zola beams, then turns to her new audience, apparently ready to socialize.

"Vivi is my cousin," she informs Addison brightly, any trace of shyness faded by the successful birthday exchange.

Derek looks a little embarrassed. "We haven't really explained the term," he begins, exchanging a helpless look with Meredith.

"She met a lot of cousins on this trip," Meredith offers.

"Cousin Vivi," Zola agrees, nodding firmly, pointing at Vivian in case her parents need a visual. " _My_ cousin," she adds.

Derek winces a little. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine," Addison says. "I like it."

Meredith remembers the vow she made herself in the back of a taxi with her daughter after their girls' dinner with Liz and her daughters – the first time Zola referred to Viv as her cousin. She decided, that night, that if Zola brought it up again, she wouldn't correct her.

"I like it too," Meredith says, and is rewarded with smiles from two little girls in heart-shaped sunglasses.

…

Questions of terminology fade into sunshine as they draw up chairs to enjoy the surprisingly pleasant weather.

Viv is reluctant to leave her mother's side but consents to wade with Zola on the broad pool steps, Meredith standing knee deep to supervise, as long as she can face the Adirondack chair where Addison is resting. Zola, too, looks up regularly to wave to her father.

It's peaceful watching their play – at a close enough distance that Vivian is willing to leave her mother but not so close that they're splashed or deafened by Zola's occasional pleasurable shriek.

So he's not that surprised when Mark taps the arm of Derek's chair and indicates, wordlessly, that Addison is sleeping. The men stand, one of the nurses moving seamlessly to trade places with Mark – they must have already established a routine – and Derek trails him across the grass.

"She's tired." Mark looks out at the beach and Derek follows his gaze.

Understandably, and understatedly.

"Viv must be happy to have her home," Derek suggests cautiously.

"Yeah." Mark shoves his sunglasses to the top of his head as they find shade under the sweeping branches of a tree. There's a metal post in one side of the trunk as if a hammock used to hang here. "She's happy until I have to separate them and then she's a nightmare."

It's an unfortunate word choice considering Vivian's sleep disturbances, but Derek just listens.

"Addison needs to rest," Mark says, unnecessarily, but Derek understands if he feels defensive. "She can barely lift her arms right now, she has PT that she can't medicate through. She just had a f – " He stops talking, and Derek sees him draw a long breath. "She has to rest," he repeats.

Derek gets it: Addison needs significant periods of rest in order to heal, and some space from Vivian in order to rest, but based on Mark's expression – his eyes finally visible without the dark sunglasses – he's alone in enforcing that goal.

"She's doing well," Mark says, and Derek isn't sure at first if he means Addison or Vivian. "Now, she's doing well. But it's not over. It's not even – " He stops talking again, with that same sense of reflexive self-censorship. "She's still pregnant," he says quietly. "She's still – she's got a doppler in one hand and a drain in the other and I spend most of the time trying to keep Viv from sending her back to the hospital."

Derek nods.

"I have no idea what's going to happen with the baby." He shakes his head grimly.

Derek gets the sense, from the way his words are tumbling out, that Mark has lacked a confidante over the last week or so that Derek has been consumed with Nancy's children. The thought makes him sad.

"Everyone has an opinion about how long she should wait to start treatment," Mark continues, "she has some idea that she can carry him to term, and she and Viv are both going stir crazy out here."

He pauses for breath, then glances at Derek as if waiting to be judged.

"She's home," Derek says simply.

Mark smiles, without warning, changing the lines of his face back to the man Derek used to know. "She's home," he repeats.

…

They stay in the shade of the tree another few minutes, wordless, until the inviting fragrance of cooking meat floats across the air and Mark leads Derek, with some noticeable embarrassment, toward an impressive-looking spread of food set up by what appears to be a discreet professional staff.

It's a lot for a small guest list.

"Bizzy sent some of her … people." Mark replaces his sunglasses. "And Viv didn't want to invite anyone else. We wouldn't normally do any of this, you know, but with everything … ."

A glance at the tired lines of Mark's face and whatever judgment he might have had fades. He kicks himself a bit, reminded of how much Mark has to juggle. If having some help makes things easier … he's not really in a position to criticize. While the Sloans' tastes might run a bit more highbrow in general than his and Meredith's, he knows he would hire whatever services he could to make things run smoothly if Meredith were the one recently helicoptered in from a lifesaving surgery, whether private nurses or what appears to be a private chef.

The girls make their way to the food too, smelling of chlorine, Zola jumping into his arms and Vivian looking like it's taking every ounce of self-control not to divert and go straight to Addison. Having her mother this close but unavailable seems particularly difficult for her; Mark must notice this too because he lifts Viv off her feet and holds her close for a moment. He draws back, wrinkling his nose, then takes a handful of her long messy hair and draws an exaggerated sniff.

"You smell like the pool," he says.

"I don't!" Viv protests, pushing at him, but the banter and the struggle both appear good-natured and she gives up after a moment, settling in her father's arms and resting her little pointed chin on his shoulder.

Zola is entranced and distracted by the food on offer; there's freshly grilled meat and jewel bright fruit and several elaborate salads. Mark makes a plate for Vivian one-handed and then directs her to a round table in view of, but not directly with, her mother. Meredith and Zola, who is too excited by the chunks of ripe peach on bamboo skewers to do much other than squeak her approval, accompany her.

By the time Derek joins them, Vivian is sitting up on her knees, watching her mother and making very little progress on her plate. She rests her face glumly in one hand, elbow on the table.

"And _then_ we swim," Zola pronounces volubly from her mother's lap, as if she's just finished a speech. Beaming, she turns to her friend. "Right?"

Viv looks like she's forgotten the plot and casts Derek and Meredith an uncertain glance. Mark ambles over then, Vivian wriggling in her chair until she's sitting like a small adult, removing her face from her hand.

"I'm done," she tells her father when he reaches her side.

"You haven't eaten anything, Vivi." Mark sounds tired. He pulls out one of the empty chairs. "Mommy's still resting," he reminds her when she starts to protest.

Vivian slumps in her chair, drawing her knees up to her chin and hugging them tightly, her body expressing itself louder than her silence. Derek sees how much is still the same despite what has changed, the difficult balancing act Mark is still maintaining.

Then again, _she's home_ , that's what he said.

And that's definitely different.

…

Viv shies away from the pool after lunch, Zola a little confused but game as she follows her older friend around in the grass, gripping her mother's hand for added comfort.

"She'll snap out of it when Addison wakes up." Mark indicates his daughter's slumped shoulders as she strolls aimlessly across the property, and then massages the back of his neck for a moment. "I actually think it's easier for her when her mom's inside, but – " he shakes his head.

Once again, his position seems unwinnable.

Zola is intrigued enough for both girls when one of the staff brings out an icy tray of some kind of dessert, pulling Viv and Meredith fiercely toward the unexpected treat with both hands.

"What did you find?" Derek asks Zola teasingly when she thrusts her prize at him.

"Popsicle!" she beams, offering him a lick.

It's actually an … ice pop of sorts, some kind of cylindrical actual _ice_ , filled with fruit and – are those herbs? Yes, as he sees Vivian take a solemn lick of hers, that must be watermelon and – "mint, I think," Meredith says when she sees his quizzical expression. Zola's ice pop, which is currently halfway into his mouth at his daughter's vigorous request, is filled with strawberries and what looks like … basil.

The overall sensation is fresh and pleasant and absolutely nothing like the box of frozen supermarket popsicles he and Mark would dig into in the summers from the Shepherds' old chest freezer.

Meredith settles on the arm of his chair, watching Viv and Zola chat while they address their snacks.

"Vivi," Zola is saying with a solemn urgency. "There's _green_ things in my popsicle." She shoves it toward her friend in support.

"It's okay," Viv tells her. "They're the good kind."

"Oh." Zola considers this, then takes a few experimental licks. "Good," she says.

As Mark predicted, Viv's mood improves noticeably when Addison is awake and she flocks to her mother's side as soon as she's permitted. Zola tags along, intrigued by this game at first and then, when Viv is distracted by Addison, dozing off against her own mother's shoulder while Addison alternates quiet conversation with Vivian and questions for Meredith about her pregnancy.

Meanwhile, Derek moves behind his wife to check on their daughter, whose head is lolling sweetly in genuine sleep.

"The other half of her nap," Meredith suggests.

Zola stirs a little and Derek gets the sense she'll need quiet to finish the nap.

"Do you want to take her inside?" Addison asks. "There's lots of room."

Another understatement.

"It's so nice out here," Meredith says. "Maybe we'll just go – " and she indicates the many sitting options in the vast property with one hand. Gesturing that Derek should stay behind, she carries Zola across the grass.

…

With Meredith and Zola resting in the shade of one of the linen umbrellas, Derek is left with Mark and his family, wondering if he should excuse himself to give them privacy.

Viv is lolling by her mother's chair, staying back with what looks like a combination of supreme self-control and warning from Mark, who's resting a hand on one of her bare shoulders. Derek sees Vivian look longingly toward the empty space on her mother's chair, but he's fairly certain he can also see the outline of her surgical drains under her light covering as well.

Mark seems to be trying to give Viv and Addison some privacy, too, while supervising his daughter, so Derek stays, leaning back in his own chair and talking off and on with Mark about inconsequential things.

"Are you cold, Vivi?" Addison is asking when he tunes back in. A large standing umbrella shades her chair and some of the others, but there are wings of sunlight across the yard.

Vivian shakes her head.

"Go get your coverup if you're not going back in the pool," Mark instructs, reaching for her arm.

She arches away from him. "I _am_ going back in."

Mark presses his lips together. "So go in, baby, while it's still sunny," he says after a moment. "What's the matter?" he asks when Viv doesn't respond or make any moves toward the pool. "You waiting for Zola?"

She shrugs.

"Zola might sleep for a while," Derek says tentatively, hoping he's not making things worse. Viv ignores his contribution.

"Why don't you swim a little with Daddy, sweetheart," Addison suggests, glancing at Mark, "and I'll watch you."

"No," Viv says immediately, gripping the arm of the Adirondack chair.

Derek is reminded of so many of the exchanges he's seen among this small family since they were reacquainted. The weather may be gloriously sunny instead of horribly humid, and their surroundings may be the landscaped grounds of a luxurious beach house instead of a hospital waiting room – but the central issue remains the same.

He finds himself internally bracing as Vivian digs in metaphorical, if not literal, heels, standing her ground. Finally, she pulls at her father, attempting to get his face to the right level to whisper in his ear.

"Vivi." Mark shakes his head. "No, that's rude – " but he stops trying to correct her, maybe due to her beseeching expression, and lets her whisper, one hand cupped around her mouth.

Derek has no idea what she's saying – she's certainly a far more effective whisperer than his daughter; Zola's standard routine is to place both hands, megaphone style, against her face and then hoarsely shout whatever secret she's trying to share at a volume easily by anyone in the room or probably the entire zip code.

Whatever she said, though, Mark looks pained. He holds her face in his hands for a moment when she's done talking, then glances at Derek. "Are you gonna be here for a bit?" he asks quietly.

Derek isn't sure what he's asking. Here, in the Hamptons? Here, in this chair?

And then he realizes that Vivian must have asked if Derek was staying with her mother, and that – presumably – her willingness to swim with her father depends on it.

As often with the Sloans, he has no time to parse the layers of sadness; he just nods wordlessly.

…

It occurs to Derek, as he watches Mark with Vivian, that he hasn't seen the other man as a father – not really, not without other, more pressing, circumstances.

Not in any simple way.

There was Clara's disastrous wedding, balancing the awkwardness of their first time seeing each other since the night he left New York, with Amy's outburst and a toddler. And then here in Manhattan, this sticky surreal summer, consumed by Addison's illness and the attendant and seemingly constant choices. He's seen Mark both stoic and despairing, seen Vivian cling to him desperately and shun him in frustration at being denied contact with her mother.

But he's never seen them like this.

Roughhousing, playing, reveling in each other's company. He watches as Mark scoops Viv up to toss her into the pool, producing a shriek of delight along with a sizable splash. Mark dives in seconds later to join her and they surface at the same time. Vivian splashes an arc of water in her father's direction; he reroutes it toward her and she tackles him; they chase each other around the pool. Viv's swimming prowess may come from her mother, but Mark keeps pace with her easily. Derek hasn't actually seen him move his body in longer than he can remember but the Mark of his memory was always active, a natural athlete, running and lifting to weights to ward off stress. He must miss having a physical outlet and watching father and daughter splash vigorously through the pool together suggests Viv's not that different.

He's impressed with how easily Viv navigates the deep waters, clambering fearlessly onto her father's back and, when he attempts teasingly to throw her off, attempting in turn to dunk him. It doesn't strike him as the kind of play Liz would approve of at her house – as Viv tumbles under the water and comes up sputtering and laughing – but there's something charmingly timeless about it nonetheless.

It reminds him, actually, of the sort of rough and tumble play he can recall with his own father when he was young. Young, and small enough to be tossed easily off the dock or the edge of the public pool. His memories certainly don't resemble the manicured lawns here, the scrupulously clean and tastefully decorated sitting areas, and the tennis courts he can make out past the thicket of honeysuckles at the edge of the sloping lawn.

But it's familiar nonetheless.

It's as familiar as the child he's watching is unfamiliar. He's spent more time with Mark and Addison's child over the last few weeks than he ever could have imagined, and more intimately – from comforting her through night terrors to cooking breakfast together – but this flipping, splashing, swimming version of Viv is someone new.

He's seen Viv play nicely with Zola over the course of their newfound friendship, engage with her, produce the occasional smile or even rarer laugh. And Meredith mentioned to him Viv's affinity for swimming, but this is more than that. She's alive in a way that's different from the solemn-faced little girl he's more accustomed to.

 _Carefree_.

The word strikes him.

"I would tell them to be careful," Addison says after a hoarsely shouting Vivian is tossed underwater again, still looking toward the pool, "but I don't think either of them would hear me."

He smiles ruefully at this; it's not clear whether Addison means _hear_ as in actually hear over the din of their splashing and shouting, or _hear_ as in _listen._ As if in response, Viv pops back to the surface of the pool and hurls herself at her father. He hears them laugh together.

"Derek, you don't have to stay," Addison adds quietly. "You should – go enjoy the grounds."

"Enjoy the grounds," he repeats, mimicking the amusingly formal language instinctively, forgetting for a moment how long it's been since they've had that sort of teasing relationship.

"Yeah, well." Addison makes a sound that resembles a laugh, though he can't see her eyes behind the dark sunglasses.

He remembers that before their divorce, before their marriage or the courtship that led to it, they were friends.

"I think I can enjoy the grounds from here," he says.

"And you promised Viv," she prompts him.

"And I promised Viv."

"That was nice of you," Addison says. "She worries about me," she adds after a moment. Her voice sounds a little different, he's realizing – quieter and throatier, presumably a function of her recovery. She turns her head to look at the pool again. "I mean, it's understandable."

Derek doesn't respond. There's a reminiscent quality to Addison's tone suggesting she's not really speaking to him.

She turns back after a moment. "I've really done a number on her."

No need to ask who _her_ is.

"It's not finished yet, either." She rests a hand on her midsection, wincing a little as she does so, and then glances at Derek. She's moving her neck slowly, purposefully; it's clear she's still in some measure of discomfort. "You tell yourself you're going to do a better job than your own parents," she muses quietly. "And then … ."

Her voice trails off.

"I mean, Bizzy set a pretty high standard for dysfunction, but even she thinks I should have – " She stops talking abruptly now.

Derek isn't sure what to say. Should he try to ease her concerns? It's not his job, he knows this, and having spent with Addison's troubled daughter, he can't exactly say she's _just fine_ , either.

"Amy said something," Addison recounts quietly, "she said that she had an _incredible mom_ ," and the language is very much Amy's. "The best," she continues, "and she still turned out to be an addict who can't hold down a functional relationship. Her words, not mine," she adds, and Derek nods.

"So maybe everyone's mother screws them up," Addison says, "the good and the bad and it wasn't just Bizzy who made me … turn out like this."

"You didn't turn out so badly," he says. He's not sure if it's some leftover reflex from their long-ago marriage to respond to her occasional dips into self-pity or another instinct – or if, after getting somewhat reacquainted with Mark and watching how warmly Vivian plays alongside his own daughter, he's actually developed some newfound appreciation for his estranged ex-wife.

"If _you_ think that," Addison says, as if she's joking.

But he can tell she's pleased.

She turns back to the pool and they watch father and daughter splash each other for long moments.

"I was going to apologize," Addison says quietly, breaking the silence.

"To Vivian?" he asks, a little confused.

"To you."

Oh.

He wasn't expecting that.

"I never did, not really. Well." She pauses, then turns back to him. Her oversized sunglasses hide most of her face, but it's angled in his direction. "Not since the beginning, anyway."

 _The beginning_ feels like a century ago. Another couple, another life.

"You've apologized," he says. "It's fine."

She's quiet for a moment, and he hopes the topic is finished. He doesn't want to revisit her apology or the reasons for it. He let go of any anger so long ago that forgiving her would utterly bizarre at this point. Nor can he hold her actions against her now when they resulted directly in his current life. He started out running from Manhattan nearly seven years ago, but before he crossed through Central time he already knew he was actually running toward something instead.

Something he never could have imagined for his life, and now could never imagine his life without. As if to underscore it, he finds himself drawn instinctively toward the other side of the property, where he can just make out the nestled figures of his wife and daughter. Meredith is either napping alongside Zola, or nearly there, and they are curled so closely together it's hard to imagine they were ever separate.

He doesn't want to cheapen the life he has now with an apology for the past, and Addison doesn't push it. Instead, they watch Mark and Vivian in the pool. For a moment, he imagines the little girl splashing her father the way his sisters apparently thought he would: as the living embodiment of her parents' betrayal.

He can't do it, though.

Nor can he begrudge Addison whatever measure of happiness her family can muster within the tragedies they've had to endure. When he knew both Mark and Addison well, he knew each to be both self-flagellating and self-destructive – a potentially exhausting combination.

"Zola is wonderful," Addison says after a moment, changing the topic. "Viv's told me some stories." She pauses. "You've done so much for her, you and Meredith – you didn't have to do that."

He looks down at the grass for a moment.

"I'm grateful. I know she's not easy," Addison says quietly.

He looks up. "She was never a problem."

They turn back to the pool as one when Viv calls out for her mother; she's waving from the side of the pool before she executes a professional looking dive for a just-turned-six-year-old. He realizes Addison is somewhat stuck: she has clearly limited movement in her arms right now and her voice is weakened as well, so her reaction can't carry to the pool.

"Great job!" Derek finds himself shouting toward the figures in the water.

Addison is looking at him when he turns back. "It was a good dive," he says, a little defensively.

"It was a good dive," Addison agrees. "Good form." She pauses. "The swim coach at my mother's country club used to tie our ankles together when we practiced diving."

Derek winces. "What's that you said about being better than your parents?"

"Touché." She seems to be trying to make a face. He's struck by the simultaneous facts that she's healthier in some ways than the first time he saw her, the surgery having been successful, but her body is weakened by the procedures. He knows that it will only get worse, after the baby's birth, when she starts more aggressive treatment.

Addison is shifting now with excruciatingly slow care until she can rest a slow hand on her midsection. He can see from her stiff posture that she's uncomfortable, but it's not as if she looked relaxed before.

"Eighteen weeks," she says quietly, and Derek nods. "Do you know his name?" she asks.

He pauses, not sure of the right answer. For a moment he's back in his old life of competing Shepherds, every question a calculation, every bit of information a potentially valuable secret.

"Viv usually tells anyone she can," Addison admits, and then he feels comfortable nodding.

" _Isaac_ ," Addison confirms. She curves her hand on her belly, through the blanket, like she's holding the child himself. "Do you know what it means?"

Derek has a flash of memory of weeks prior, sitting in a humid patch of grass with his wife and daughter overlooking the churning East River, Meredith asking him a similar question.

His answer is similar again: "It's biblical. But beyond that, no."

"Biblical," Addison echoes. "Yes. Isaac … was the son of Abraham and Sarah," she recites. "A nurse told me this story, after Faith."

Their second lost baby, the one Vivian witnessed. He nods.

"According to the story, an angel came down from wherever – "

"Wherever," he can't help repeating, "is that what the bible says?"

"Shut up." She smiles a little, then pauses. "An angel came down," she continues, "and told them that Sarah would have a son, and she laughed. Because she thought she was too old. She did have a son, and she named him _Isaac_ – it means laughter."

"Laughter."

"Or _he laughs_ , something like that."

Derek nods, starting to catch the story's drift. The Biblical Sarah had a son when she thought she was too old; Addison's last embryo, according to Mark, carried at the age of 44 – the name makes sense.

Names mean something to her, he's realizing. What did she say about her daughter's name, the first time they spoke?

 _Vivian Adele_ – _n_ _amed after two of the only three women who ever mothered me without commanding a salary._

"It's a good name," he says, not quite sure how to respond.

"At least someone was older than I am when she had a baby." Addison stares out at the pool for a moment.

"How old was Sarah?" he asks, presuming she's waiting for the question.

She turns back. "Ninety."

Derek makes a sound of surprise, in spite of himself.

"That was Sarah's reaction," Addison muses. "In the story, I mean. She laughed. She didn't believe it was possible. But: _Is anything too hard for the Lord?_ " she asks rhetorically, and it has the clear quality of a recitation.

Addison, reciting from the Bible? Of everything he's seen on his trip, that might be the strangest.

She smiles a little, maybe at his expression, her own rueful. "The nurse," she says rather dismissively, by way of explanation. "I'm still not religious, don't worry." She pauses. "I did take the St. Luke's medal from Violet into the OR, though."

His eyes widen.

"Nancy wore it." She moves her hand slightly, wincing a little, and then pauses again, perhaps misreading Derek's instinctive flinch at the mention of his sister as related to her very public showdown with Addison at Clara's wedding rather than the medical crises Addison still doesn't know about. "She was good," Addison says quietly. "In the OR, monitoring … she wants to deliver him."

"You delivered the twins," he says, because he senses that's where the conversation is going and indeed, Addison nods.

"That's what Nancy said." Addison is silent for a moment. "They're turning thirteen this year."

He has a brief flash of concern that she'll be able to deduce his discomfort with this topic, and he'll be forced to deal with her questions about his nieces, but any ability she had to read him that way has disappeared, if it was ever present.

Instead she's distracted again, watching Mark and Vivian in the pool, her visible features expressing sheer affection. She seems to notice him looking and there's a moment where her discomfort is clear – not physical this time. Some lingering sense of defensiveness, guilt for maintaining the relationship she started while she was still married to Derek?

He hopes not. The disintegration of his first marriage led directly to what would become his second, to the family he didn't know he'd been waiting for all along. _Worth it_ is putting it mildly.

He doesn't begrudge Addison Mark or vice versa. If she doesn't love Mark, then what was the point?

He doesn't say that.

He's stuck on what she said earlier, about Amy.

"Addison," he says quietly.

She takes a moment to respond. "Yes?"

He's poised to thank her for all she's done for Amy; her mention of his baby sister has reminded him that Addison and Mark bear a significant amount of responsibility for her rehab and provided the family support her relatives of origin couldn't.

But he remembers his brother-in-law's less than pleased reaction when he expressed gratitude for Steve's devotion to Nancy. As if his love were a chore he was taking off the hands of someone who was actually expressing it freely.

He doesn't quite understand, still, the complex bonds between Amy on the one hand and Mark and Addison's family on the other. But he understands enough now to pivot, at the last minute, from what he had planned to say.

"Viv's a pretty impressive swimmer," he says instead, indicating the pool where father and daughter are playing volubly in the water.

Addison smiles in response, enough to push her oversized sunglasses higher on her cheeks.

…

"Someone's waking up," Meredith says softly. Sure enough, Zola emerges from her impromptu catnap, lifting bleary eyes to focus on her mother.

"Mama."

"Mama's right here." Meredith strokes her back. Zola calls her _Mommy_ , much of the time, but some moments – especially her first and last awake – she's _Mama_ again, those first syllables that pierced Meredith's heart and cemented her role as a mother to this child just as Zola herself did the first time she wrapped impossibly tiny fingers around one of Meredith's.

"Vivi's house," Zola recalls fretfully, fisting a lock of Meredith's hair like she used to do when she was small; now, it's for times of needed comfort.

"That's right," she soothes, "we're at Vivi's house. And we had a nice nap in the sun."

Okay, there's a big umbrella keeping the sun from glaring too hard – but that's a detail.

Zola cuddles close for another minute, absorbing enough maternal love to fortify her to sit halfway up, bravely, on her mother's lap.

"Mine?" She reaches hopefully for the sunglasses on top of Meredith's head.

"They're a little big for you – but sure." She helps Zola put them on, and her daughter beams in response, then wriggles on Meredith's lap until she's looking over the back of the chair.

"Vivi's swimming!" she bellows, no longer sounding tired at all, and with enough undercurrent of betrayal to suggest Benedict Arnold himself is also in the Sloans' pool.

"That's right, Zozo, and she wants to swim with you, when you're ready."

"I _am_ ready." Zola bounces on her lap, then, as if Meredith has forgotten, rears back and yanks up her little yellow polka-dot shirt to reveal her bathing suit waiting patiently underneath – far more patiently than the little girl wearing it. The sunglasses fall forgotten onto Meredith's legs.

"Look, Mommy," Zola commands, thrusting her rounded little belly forward to show off her swimsuit – apparently not satisfied with her mother's reaction. The bathing suit is bright pink with a pattern of white fish; Meredith produces appropriately effusive praise in return.

She's actually a little tired herself, nearly falling asleep with Zola's warm little sleepy body on hers. But the determination in her daughter's face makes very clear that swimming _right now_ is not optional.

…

"Hey." Derek glances up as Meredith approaches. True to his promise to Vivian, he's been sitting with Addison since she and her father left to swim. Addison started dozing not too long after she explained the genesis of her son's name, but he felt compelled to stay anyway.

A promise is a promise.

Meredith is watching the pool too. "You take Zola in," she suggests. "I'll stay here."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He's not sure which little girl is happier to see the other as he eases Zola into the shallow end, enjoying her squeaks of surprised excitement at the cool water.

Meanwhile, Vivian treads water with anticipation, waiting for Zola to get accustomed to the temperature. "It's nice," she says, with all the authority of a newly six-year-old. "You just have to get used to it."

Zola takes her word for it, flapping her arms in their swimmies and sending an arc of water over her and her father.

"Nice," she repeats with satisfaction.

Viv stretches out her hands and Zola easily permits herself to be towed along the shallow end. Then Vivian kicks up into a sort of modified breaststroke, swimming slowly alongside her younger friend.

"Don't go deep, baby," Mark warns.

"I'm not." Viv reroutes both girls and picks up speed a little, Zola crowing with delight. Eventually, she releases Zola's hands and encouraging her to paddle on her own, cheering her on.

Derek watches them swimming together.

It's what he thought about at Liz's barbecue, wasn't it? That in the back of his mind, all along, he pictured raising his family alongside Mark's. That the symmetry he and Mark used to share entertaining Derek's nieces and nephews in that same pool would one day translate to their own children.

He sees that Mark is looking at them too, but dark glasses obscure his expression. Abruptly, he removes the sunglasses and tosses them on the side of the pool.

And then disappears beneath the water, surfacing under a startled Vivian, who clings to his shoulders as he stands up. She's laughing even as she scolds him for startling her.

"Cheater," Vivian chides him, now high above the water. "You didn't _tell_ me."

" _You_ didn't notice." He tickles one of her dangling feet.

"Me too," Zola calls, her little head tipped back to see Viv's new perch, and Derek holds out his arms, lifting his daughter and her rather obstructive swimmies to his shoulders.

Zola and Vivian seem delighted to be facing each other.

"Like the boys," Mark says, and it's enough for Derek to realize the same thought is crossing both men's minds: all those long-ago weekends at Liz's country house, Mark and Derek each hoisting a nephew to their shoulders for the kind of spirited chicken fights Liz usually broke up after a while.

Vivian pats her father's head. "What boys?"

"We used to play chicken, Vivi," Mark says, not quite answering her question. "In the pool."

"Chicken? How do you play?" Viv asks from her spot high above the water. "Show us."

Derek realizes that this game must be new to Vivian. For all that Mark seems to have carried on Shepherd water-play traditions with his own family, he's reminded that Viv is an only child, without cousins to speak of. They couldn't have played this game with her even if they wanted to, without someone else to square off.

The thought makes him a little sad.

"Daddy." Vivian taps her father's head now to get his attention, then squeals when he tickles her in response. "What are the _rules_ ," she asks insistently once she's settled. "What do me and Zola do up here?"

Zola is apparently enjoying the view, sitting contemplatively on her father's shoulders while Derek holds her little legs securely and she fists her small hands in his hair.

Mark and Derek exchange an amused glance. "You, uh, you try to push each other off. Into the water."

"We do?" Viv sounds horrified. " _Why?"_

"Why?" Mark repeats blankly. He looks at Derek, who shrugs.

"I'm not gonna push Zola into the water," she says firmly, which Derek appreciates.

"I'm _not_ ," Zola echoes happily, with no apparent understanding of the rules; she bounces merrily on Derek's shoulders nonetheless.

"That's a mean game," Viv pronounces. "We don't like it. Wait," she adds.

Derek looks over Mark's head, where Vivian appears to be thinking about something.

"Okay, move closer, Daddy," Viv prompts, gesturing with both hands and swinging her feet, apparently trusting a combination of gravity and Mark's sole hand on her ankle to keep her in place. Her father takes a step closer.

"Zola, here!" Derek sees Viv hold out both hands, presumably to his daughter.

He can't see what his daughter does in response, but based on Viv's smile, she's returning the gesture and then he sees them squeeze hands in the space between their fathers.

" _Girls_ ," Mark scoffs, smiling, but his voice is thick. "Can't get 'em to push each other over – we couldn't have stopped Chris and Evan if we tried."

From above his head, he hears Zola loudly but very sweetly offer Vivian a cup of tea. Viv's response is enthusiastic enough that a shoulder-height tea party rapidly commences, Mark and Derek both playing the role of … chairs.

"That's a _very_ pretty butterfly," Zola says, her voice carrying on the breeze that rolls in from the water, and then neither of them can keep from smiling.

What's that Addison said, the first time they spoke on this trip, after seeing a picture of Derek dressed for a princess tea party with Zola? _Mark will take your side, you should see the things Viv's persuaded him to wear._ Their lives have been too consumed with Addison's illness for him to see the proof, but he's aware his former friend is no stranger to tea parties and the accoutrements of raising a daughter. He's observed so much strain in Mark's relationship with his daughter – deep love, yes, along with deep hurts, sensible in the face of their shared tragedies.

He remembers Amy's words after she finally described to him the incident on the third floor of the townhouse that eroded – but didn't destroy – the trust between his younger sister and Vivian's parents.

 _You didn't know them before,_ she said of the Sloans, _it was – they were different. They were great with Viv, and she was great._

That morning with Amy, that evening with Addison, those iterations of Mark were just portraits of someone he'd never seen.

This Mark, though, in the pool? He has no trouble picturing this Mark wearing a pair of pink fairy wings to please his daughter or accepting a lovingly-poured cup of imaginary tea.

 _Girls_ , Mark said, amused, when Vivian expressed outrage at the idea of pushing Zola into the water, comparing it to the natural roughness of Derek's young nephews.

"I think I'm okay with this version," Derek says after a moment.

"Yeah?" Mark gives Viv's dangling a foot a little squeeze. "Me too."

…

The girls have been lured out of the pool with the promise of impending birthday cake, Zola cuddled in a thick striped beach towel on her mother's lap, when Derek heads into the house in search of shade and a restroom, not necessarily in that order.

Making his way through the airy first floor of the house, all urgency vanished, he pauses to take stock of its atmosphere.

He's spent time, on several occasions now, in the Sloans' abandoned-feeling townhouse with its darkened rooms and framed tributes to a happier family.

Here, things are different.

They must have employed a caretaker, as Derek and Addison did for their own home during off seasons years ago; the rooms he traverses are immaculately free from dust but also somehow sunny and lived-in. With windows thrown open to the summer breeze, the high ceiling fans make the large rooms airy and refreshing rather than stale.

Altogether, despite its very different feel, he senses the same curious combination he noticed at the townhouse, too: immensely, almost laughably, valuable real estate housing a variety of oversized antiques, but somehow … homey as well. The same contrast, perhaps, as Vivian's usually careful manners and her often casually messy appearance.

Near the side door sit a series of canvas bags not to dissimilar from the ever-present one on Mark's shoulder in Manhattan. There are three, actually: the largest with red straps, the slightly smaller with blue and then finally the smallest one with pink straps. There's something poignant in the stair-step fashion of them: if they don't belong to each relatively sized family member in turn, they could. It's reminiscent of that sweet developmental stage where Zola still hovers, where the largest of any objects is _daddy_ , the next largest _mommy_. The smallest one of anything, of course, is _Zozo_ , their particular baby. He finds himself smiling just at the thought of her. Her family will change, soon, requiring an even smaller object – a seashell or a rock, plastic silverware in the hospital cafeteria, anything – to represent her baby brother.

Making his way through what seems to be a family room – large, comfortable couches, an oversized sisal rug and a wicker basket of children's books – he pauses to look at some of the photographs on the built-in shelving.

They're new to him, almost as if a new wing has opened up in this exhibition of the life of his former best friend and his former wife. He has a slightly rueful recollection of being dragged to museum openings with Addison before he started begging off to spend his rare free time on hobbies he enjoyed more. _Here we have the newest addition to our collection: a series of photographs of Vivian on the beach dating all the way back to the mid-2000s._ His gaze falls on a white triptych frame featuring a smaller, but familiar, Viv in each captured image.

She's perhaps a year younger than she is now, cross-legged in the sand with a plastic castle-shaped beach toy in her hands and a look of concentration on her face in the first shot. In the second, smiling over the lopsided structure she's created. In the third, kneeling up behind an even taller castle, apparently having decided to build it further toward the sky.

The series is sweet – amusing, even: the image of Vivian planning, enjoying, and then expanding a structure, like a miniature version of the Addison he remembers from their time in New York, usually doing something to one of their properties to improve it … or at least change it.

"That's me."

He turns around at the words to see Viv standing behind him looking at the frame in his hands. She's by herself, wearing a linen-looking coverup embroidered with seashells.

"I thought so." Derek smiles at her. "I like your sandcastle," he says, indicating the photograph.

"Thanks." Viv looks down at her bare toes – no more buddy tape, he notices; her injury must have healed – then back up again. "Did you used to live here?" she asks.

He takes in the question, then shakes his head. "No. I never lived here. This is your mom and dad's house."

"Oh." She marks a pattern in the sisal rug with one bare foot. "Did you used to come here, though?"

He shakes his head again.

"My dad said he used to play tennis with you."

Ah. "He did," Derek says, "but not here. Your mom too."

Viv focuses on his second point. "My mom too?"

Derek nods.

"Who else played?" she asks.

Derek is puzzled by her question. They had the occasional extra people at the house back then, sometimes doubling with Addison – he recalls that Savvy was trained but avoided overexertion; Naomi made up for lack of finesse with impressive upper body strength. But he's not sure that's what she wants to know.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"You, my mom, and my dad … that's only three," she says patiently. "You need four people, for doubles. You're supposed to be two people or four people. You're not supposed to be three people."

Derek glances down at Vivian's freckled face. _You're not supposed to be three people._ Was that the root of some of this? They were _only three_ , neither two nor four – too many and not enough all at once.

"We managed," he says.

Viv seems to accept this, then refocuses on the location. "But you didn't play here?" she asks.

"No." Derek shakes his head. "At a different house."

She nods, perhaps filing this information, too, away with the pieces of a complicated backstory she's just starting to understand.

"Does Zola play tennis?" she asks next.

Derek smiles, about to say she's too young, then realizes that for all he knows, Viv has been playing since she was small. He recalls from his first marriage that there were few if any sports that Addison and her brother weren't expected to pick up, no matter how small they were, if it was somehow convenient for the adults around them. Mark and Addison seem quite different as parents, but then Viv's athleticism can't have come from a vacuum, and he's conscious of not wanting her to feel judged.

"She doesn't know how yet," he says.

"Oh." Viv considers this. "You should teach her," she adds after a moment. "My dad said you were good."

He'll take this as a compliment; Mark was no less fierce a competitor than Addison in his recollection, and never took too well to losing. It was rare either Derek or Mark lost, though, in those days: they were so fairly matched that it was often a draw. It was usually Derek who gave up on their tiebreakers first, though, losing interest and heading to the pool or for a beer. Is that losing?

Mark's daughter is looking up at him expectantly, waiting for his response.

"Teach Zola to play tennis," he repeats. "Okay. Maybe I will."

"Yeah." She gives him the lopsided half smile that looks so much like her father's. "Then next time you come, Zola will know how to play," she continues. "And we can play together."

His throat feels thick; he swallows, hard.

"Good plan," he says.

They're interrupted before she can respond by someone calling her name. He hears Mark's footsteps before he sees him.

"You're still inside, Vivi?" he asks, nodding acknowledgement to Derek.

"I wanted to get something from my room. To show Zola."

"Go get it," Mark suggests, nodding toward the door, "so you can get back outside. Zola wants to play with you."

Viv nods and disappears from the room in a flurry of long wet hair.

Mark gestures at the photographs in Derek's hand. "This isn't gonna be like the last time you showed my kid pictures, right?"

Derek lifts an eyebrow as he sets the frame down. "That was Liz who showed her the pictures last time."

"Yeah." Mark shoves both hands in his pockets this time, then glances out of the room as if checking for Viv.

It's related, he thinks, somehow, to his family's unflattering surprise that he was willing to care for Vivian. That because she's the physical embodiment of his ex-wife's adultery, she carries its stain. He doesn't, and has never, seen her that way. His recollection of her from their first meeting is neutral: she was a restless and relatively friendly toddler, attended to by some of the Shepherd cousins in much the way Zola is now.

She's something else, though, if her provenance has to color her present: the embodiment of the choices that have led them both to this moment. Addison's aborted apology sums it up: there can be no rewriting of their past that erases that momentous betrayal: not if Mark and Addison are to have their daughter and not if Derek is to have his … or his wife. Which means there can be no rewriting.

He's done more than turn the page; he is, in a way, grateful for its beginning.

He can't escape seeing now how this trip has forced past and present to collide, to blur a future he never expected. _Black and white_ , that's what his mother said once. Meredith sees the world differently, this he knows: in shades of grey. Perhaps it's not so surprising to Meredith that the Mark who held his hand at his father's funeral, who punched more than one trash-talking baseball rival on his behalf, who stood up for him at his wedding, could be the same Mark who slept with his wife and also the same Mark who turned to him now, on this trip. That they are one and the same on one long, curving journey.

It's not how he felt when he arrived, or how he would have felt if you'd asked him. But you would have had to ask him, specifically. It's not that he's been nurturing anger with his absence: they simply faded away. His present in Seattle was too full, too precious, to permit rumination on his past. He could summon recollection when needed – in poignant preparation for a curious Vivian asking about Derek's shared past with her parents, in response to various questions or inquiries from his family members. But the medical school-era Addison he recalled in the formica-lined kitchen of the temporary apartment, preparing to discuss her with Vivian, was as far as his memory could tell a different person. A very young person – closer in age, he realized with no shortage of import at the time, to her present-day daughter than to her present-day self.

Just as the squint-smiling boy in his baseball uniform, the one Liz pointed out to Vivian, Zola, Meredith, and Derek at her house in Connecticut, is past and present Mark all at once. The bridge between those periods seems, inexplicably, to be the future: the small girl who padded barefoot into this room, half of each of those formerly influential parts of Derek's life.

And yet, with all of the trauma and stress that has attended her young life, Viv managed to maintain enough youthful naivete to refer, with heartrending innocence, to a future for the Sloans that includes the Shepherds.

Stranger things have happened, he supposes.

Mark is still looking at him, perhaps waiting to hear what he's been doing in this room.

"Viv asked me to teach Zola how to play tennis," Derek reports. "So they can play together."

"Yeah?" Mark clears his throat a little. "That's not such a bad idea."

"That's what I told Viv," Derek says.

…

 _Closure._ There's no word he can think of for its exact opposite, maybe because it's not always clear where the start of something is until it's finished. Their trip to the Hamptons is winding to a close, to the soundtrack of _happy birthday_.

As they cluster around Addison's chair, a worker brings a small but elaborate cake topped with a smiling mermaid. Viv smiles at it, but seems just as happy to be standing next to her mother's chair.

"Me too!" Zola says eagerly as the cake is set down on the round table.

"Wait, sweetie." Derek scoops her up before she can leave a handprint on the pristine frosting. "It's Viv's birthday, so she's going to blow out the candles. You can watch, okay?"

"No!" Zola arches away from him. "I'm helping!"

"She can sit with me." Viv pats the empty space on her adult-sized chair.

"That's so nice of you, Viv," Meredith says, "but I think she'll try to blow out your candles if she can reach them …"

"That's okay," Viv insists. She pats the empty space again. "She can help me."

Zola beams and scrambles up in the chair, closing her eyes beatifically as she helps Viv make short work of the seven candles.

"She's been incredible with Zola," Derek tells Mark as the cake is whisked away to be sliced. "Patient, sweet – maybe a little too sweet, because Zola's going to have to face reality when she's back in day care and the big kids don't give her whatever she wants."

"Yeah." Mark smiles at the two girls, still sharing the same chair. "She's pretty desperate to be a big sister."

It seems like she might get her wish now … but their unborn son's future still feels too fragile to say it out loud.

He turns to his daughter instead.

"Hey, Zozo, you think you're going to share as well as Viv when your little brother gets here?"

Zola studies his face, looking amused, then plants a wet kiss on his cheek without answering.

Yeah … sounds about right.

"Viv's present," Meredith whispers to him, and he remembers they brought more than just the non-shark Zola selected.

This one is wrapped, and Viv regards it curiously, letting Zola do most of the work unwrapping it. Despite having seen and approved it previously, Zola's little face registers immense shock and no small measure of awe.

"Thank you," Viv says politely, "it's great," which is apparently her standard response to presents, but her eyes widen as she studies the gift: a waterproof camera in a rather violent shade of pink to capture underwater pictures. "It goes in the pool," Viv notes, pointing to one of the pictures on the box and then glancing at Derek for confirmation. When he nods, she hands the camera to her father to help her open the box.

"Can we use it now?" she asks when the camera is in her hands.

They do, while they wait for cake and coffee for the adults, Mark and Derek accompanying the girls to the pool for a final dip and experimentation with the camera. Vivian snaps several wet photos of Zola making funny faces, then directs her father underwater and ducks down herself to take a picture of him from below the surface. When she passes the camera to Mark, Derek sees him take a photo of the girls together, Zola kicking her little feet without making much progress while Viv cheers her on and, finally, tows her through the water.

"I'm swimming all my myself," Zola declares, optimistically, as she passes her father, one of her little hands captured in Vivian's.

He'll give her this one.

…

Towel-dried again, sun-warmed, the cycle recalling so many poolside summers, they linger over Vivian's birthday cake. She nibbles the edible tail of the mermaid, to Zola's horrified delight, and then offers her younger friend the other half. Zola is decorated with equal amounts of blue and yellow frosting from the mermaid's tail and hair, respectively, by the time they finish.

The staff move around discreetly, taking the round table they used for cake and restoring a small chair Derek hasn't noticed before.

Zola zooms in on it; it's child-sized, to her immense delight, and she thumps the seat approvingly.

Derek realizes now that while Addison is seated on a double-wide Adirondack chair, there's a regular sized one next to her – he sat in it himself – and now a small one.

"Three bears chairs," Viv says, noticing him looking.

He's reminded of Zola's categorization of graduated sizing: _the Daddy, the Mommy, the baby._ Well. The _Zozo_ , usually. He's touched to see Viv seems to have done the same with these chairs.

"I _like_ it," Zola says, beaming, and sits down right down on the smallest one.

Derek glances at Viv, a little concerned she might be uncomfortable or territorial, but she's smiling at her younger friend.

"That one's usually my dad's," Viv explains, pointing to Addison's chair, "and that's my mom's" – unoccupied currently, as Meredith crouches in front of the smallest chair trying to wipe a pound or so of frosting from their daughter's face. "That's mine," Viv finishes, unnecessarily, pointing to the smallest chair.

Viv strokes the wide arm of the largest chair. "We can all fit in this one together," she says, while Addison smiles at her.

"Not today, Vivi." Mark holds her back gently. "Mommy needs room."

"Mark." Addison moves one arm, stiffly, to touch the empty space beside her. "I think we can still fit."

They exchange a glance Derek can't read and then they begin the process of making room for each other, Viv watching breathlessly from inches away.

It's indeed a process – dozens of smaller movements, larger ones, ones so minute he's aware he probably doesn't notice them at all, but they're still there. Mark is clearly mindful of Addison's healing, her stiff muscles and the drains accompanying her recovery – for a moment Derek thinks it won't work.

But then Mark settles very carefully next to Addison, guiding her slowly to shift so that his arm is around her and she's turned, just slightly. Finally he holds his free hand out to Vivian and helps her climb into his lap, reminding her softly to be gentle. She settles back against his chest, long damp hair hanging loose.

Cautiously, she reaches a small hand toward her mother.

"Careful, baby," Mark warns, taking her hand and moving it back to his side.

"It's okay," Addison says quietly. "She can touch."

Glancing at her father for approval first, Viv stretches her little hand out once more to touch her mother's belly where her brother is growing, her eyes closing blissfully.

Meredith and Derek and exchange a glance. The pink waterproof camera they brought for Viv's birthday is sitting on the vacant second chair, still smelling faintly of chlorine and sunscreen with beaded up water on its surface.

Derek looks to Mark first and sees him nod.

Then, with his permission, Derek uses Viv's bright pink birthday present to center the image of all three – no, four, Viv would probably say – Sloans sharing one oversized Adirondack chair. Vivian's long, messy hair is spread across both parents; Mark is positioned awkwardly, holding Viv against him with one arm and carefully supporting Addison with the other. Addison's oversized sunglasses can't fully hide her physical discomfort, even as most of her face is angled toward her family. And no one is looking at the camera when he clicks the shutter.

Maybe it's not the sort of picture they'll frame.

But it seems like a moment they might want to remember, anyway.

* * *

 _Thank you so much for reading. That's the end of the Hamptons: next chapter picks up with the rest of the MerDerZo road trip. There's still a few stops left on their journey. One more east coast chapter and then a time jump back to Seattle for the arrival they've been waiting for. Thank you for coming on this very, very long trip with me. This story is a lengthy undertaking, to say the least, and your support is what keeps me working on it. Anyone still reading this long, long, LONG story, I hope you'll review and let me know what you think - whether you're one of my faithful reviewers or someone who's been reading but hasn't chimed in yet, I'd love to hear from you._

 _Finally, I wavered on the song title to head this chapter and ended up surprising myself with "promise" - but I liked it for the way it reflects both past (a vow) and future (a potential). It seemed appropriate for this group, at this time ... always my favorite dynamic to explore._

 _Thank you again for reading!_


	59. rivers and roads

_**A/N: I can't believe it's been more than a month, as astute and loyal reviewer Patsy pointed out (hi, Patsy, you are awesome as always!). Thank you so much for your lovely words on the previous chapter. I've been slow in getting this chapter completed - I'm a bit in denial of this story wrapping up. I'm so grateful to everyone who's been reading and reviewing all this time. It's the longest story I've written, and the response from all of you has been really gratifying. So this is one more thank you in the ante-penultimate chapter (one more after this, and then an epilogue).**_

 _ **I hope you enjoy this chapter, which I've been looking forward to sharing with you since I outlined it.**_

* * *

 _rivers and roads  
..._

* * *

"There's a baby in there," Zola informs the middle-aged woman – _Dorene_ , that's what her name tag says – behind the old-fashioned check-in desk. Based on the woman's expression, her captive audience either finds this information fascinating or their daughter adorable.

"There is?"

Zola nods vigorously.

"Well. You folks don't have to worry … there's definitely room at _this_ inn," the woman says, winking at Meredith. "No mangers necessary."

That's a relief.

To Meredith, anyway, and to Derek, who is resting a warm hand on her shoulder while holding Zola in his other arm.

Their daughter slept most of the way in the car but blinked sleepily awake in the lobby, squinting into the unexpected light. Then there's a brief but passionate battle that starts when Zola realizes the old-fashioned brass room key is only for her parents, and concludes when Dorene produces another for their tearful daughter, who requires intense maternal cuddling to get past the stress of Keygate.

Meredith issues grateful apologies when the matter is settled – it's hard to be impatient with Zola when she's lifted her sweet face to reveal tears still clinging to her long eyelashes and she's clutching her oversized key with enough desperation to suggest she'd be a great extra in a remake of _Titanic_.

"Don't worry, it doesn't open anything." Dorene winks again. "We'll see you for breakfast, then? What do you like to eat, honeybunch?"

Zola, who correctly ascertains the sweet tone was intended for her, gives this some thought, pursing her little pink lips before she responds. "Gummy bears," she says finally.

Meredith hears, next to her, the exact sounds Derek's breathing makes when he's trying not to laugh. She gets it. _Not only are we Those Parents, but now we're advertising._

"I don't know if we have any gummy bears back in the kitchen," the woman says, still relentlessly cheerful. "How about pancakes?"

Zola nods eagerly.

"And for the two of you?"

 _Coffee. All the coffee._

"Coffee," Derek says, as if he's read her mind, smiling at the woman, who seems charmed by him – and why wouldn't she be? "Just a bucket or two."

"I remember those days," the woman says knowingly. "All right, you get some rest."

…

The room is alternating thick wools and ruffled gingham and far too many rather knowing-looking Victorian dolls. Of course, even one is too many as far as Meredith's concerned.

"I told you," she tells Derek, smiling at his expression; he's eye to eye with a rather fierce-looking porcelain doll in a dusty brocade dress.

"You did tell me," he admits, while Zola, who insisted on getting down immediately, to explore their new living quarters, lumbers from one breakable-looking piece to another.

 _Bed and breakfasts are a little creepy_ , that's what she said when they took the recommendation of the friendly diner owner who served them a nighttime coffee to propel their drive.

Derek seemed amused by her pronouncement, and he gave her a rather smug look when the woman in the lobby turned out to be so friendly, but one look at the stuffy room – thankfully aired out by multiple floor fans – and he looked a little less victorious.

Now her husband winces slightly as their daughter seizes one of the intense-looking dolls. "Careful, sweetie."

" _My_ baby," Zola cuts him off with an imperious wave of one little hand. Her face registers both defensive possession and a bit of confusion that her parents would think dolls belonged to anyone but her.

"This baby is breakable," Derek tells her patiently. "Why don't we find yours," he suggests, and Zola reacts as if he's just suggesting smashing the porcelain doll in the old-fashioned claw-footed tub.

… which might not be the worst idea, come to think of it.

Meredith digs in the bag they brought for the two baby dolls Zola has been mothering at the temporary apartment: the one she brought from home, with its creamy coffee-colored skin and dark eyelashes, and the blond baby Liz gifted their daughter at her barbecue.

 _Sisters,_ that's what Viv called the two dolls that day.

Zola perks up at the sight of her familiar babies and permits her father to take custody of the china doll. While Meredith distracts Zola, helping her find a suitable bed for her babies in one of the large crocheted tissue holders, she can see Derek discreetly posting the china dolls on a high closet shelf.

She can hear her husband running a bath, presumably for their own baby, who is still carrying a distinct chlorinated scent on her soft skin.

Zola is pleased with this turn of events, taking both babies – thankfully water resistant – into the tub with her and even allowing Meredith to remove her beloved bathing suit first. They rinsed her off at Mark and Addison's house but Zola's perfect skin has retained the summery scent of chlorine. She's wearing a fresh bathing suit – featuring a pieced-felt strawberry in the center that she had to show each Shepherd and Sloan before they left, not to mention the nursing and housekeeping staff, multiple times to paroxysms of increasing delight before she would consent to leave her Hamptons debut and return to the car.

Now both parents watch her bathe, exchanging the kind of wordless glance they've been doing since they brought Zola home. This one: _is she awake for the night?_

For a toddler who slept deeply for most of the drive from the Hamptons, Zola is showing an impressive amount of energy – she soaps her dolls with the vigor of a miniature surgeon and insists each of her parents, in turn, praise the dexterity it requires for her to lift and wriggle her tiny toes out of the water.

Meredith sits back on her heels on the hooked rug, already running from damp to wet as she expects to be when bathing her wriggly daughter. The bathroom is full of dusty glass bottles running from transparent to sea-green to an apothecary-style amber. She has no idea what's in them and doesn't really want to know; she's just grateful the shelves are high enough that Zola's curiosity won't get the better of her.

"You ready to come out, Zo?" Derek asks optimistically.

"No, thank you," Zola says, beaming at her own manners. Meredith has the fleeting thought that Viv must have rubbed off on her.

"Five more minutes," Meredith proposes.

"A _hundred_ ," Zola corrects firmly, dunking the blond baby into the water.

They compromise on ten, by which point Zola's exhaustion seems to have taken over any hope of rebellion. Her head is lolling on Derek's shoulder as he carries her, wrapped in a towel, from the bathroom.

"Don't say it," Derek warns her, though he's smiling, setting Zola down on the large four-poster bed while Meredith hunts in her bag for their daughter's pajamas.

"I didn't say it."

"Maybe not out loud … but you said it." Derek shakes his head, looking amused, as they work together to get a now mostly asleep Zola ready for bed.

They nestle the warm little bundle of sleeping baby – _not a baby,_ Meredith almost whispers that on her surely indignant daughter's behalf – into the center of the big bed.

Derek takes another moment to tuck her in securely, Meredith watching, and then looks up with a smile. "There's a baby in our bed," he says quietly.

"Is that our bed?" Meredith glances at the huge, Victorian four-poster with its excessive layers of eyelet dust ruffles. Thankfully the temperature has dropped here in – wherever they are – so the floor fans combined with the open windows leave the room pleasant enough that the fabric isn't too oppressive.

"It's our bed tonight," Derek amends. "And it's definitely our baby."

"It's definitely our baby." She stands on tiptoes to press her lips to his – just a gentle _definitely our bed, definitely our life_ good night and then yelps with surprise when he pulls her in close for a longer kiss.

"Shh," he frowns with mock severity. "You'll wake our baby."

"Who is in our bed," she reminds him, "as you pointed out."

"True." He looks so crestfallen she almost laughs. They have a portable monitor, but the idea of letting the rows of creepy dolls babysit their daughter is enough to keep her from suggesting anything steamier than a massage to rub out the kinks hours of driving have left in his shoulders.

"You're very good at this," he tells her, his voice muffled by his hands – he's on a rather lumpy quilted settee, which isn't exactly ergonomic but was the best she could do.

"Oh, I'm even better at other things," she says, dodging the hand that reaches out for her. "Sir, I'm going to have to remind you to keep your hands off the masseuse."

"I want a refund," he says, sitting up and stretching his shoulders.

"Too bad." She settles on his lap. "You're stuck with me."

He kisses her instead of responding. She'll take it.

…

It's remarkable how much the heat has lifted.

No more remarkable, though, than the simple fact he's reminded of, watching Meredith curled on her side around their sleeping daughter, snoring softly. That this is life, that this is his wife, that _I'll follow you anywhere, not if I follow you first_ can come to this:

Middle of nowhere Connecticut, even for someone as familiar with the state as he once was.

Middle the night.

Middle of an admittedly rather … creepy bed and breakfast room, complete with the kind of Victorian trappings that would normally make him feel suffocated.

He can't suffocate like this. Not with them. Not with his family. He breathes their fresh air along with the swirl of summer-scented night blowing across the room from the floor fans.

The room may be a bit much, its accoutrements … a bit creepy, but he's grateful for the place to rest before the morning.

This was the right call.

Mark offered – out of the girls' earshot, thankfully – to let them stay at the Sloans' oversized beach house. There's no questions there's room and it seemed like a sincere offer, but Derek demurred more for his own reasons than any concerns about overloading Mark's family.

Still, they lingered on the property longer than planned, until it was dark enough to watch Viv and Zola chase fireflies around the grass and for both girls, eventually, to fall asleep on the cushioned outdoor couch, sharing one blanket between them.

Derek has no regrets about the long day – he's grateful for the time they spent and his daughter's bliss at spending so much unscheduled time with her older friend is reason enough. He has, by now, permitted his former best friend back into his life to an extent he never would have thought possible. That he has is surprising; that it has ended up feeling so organic is … more surprising.

But he knows he needs to take this last leg of the journey alone.

Just the three of them, the way they flew out here.

Just the three of them – not for much longer, not with their unborn son growing every day.

…

Doreen seems to remember their daughter's affinity for sugar; the laden breakfast table has no gummy bears, but the pot of honey in front of their daughter looks like it could feed the entire extended Shepherd family. Meredith has to act quickly to pry Zola's eager hands from the sticky spoon.

She drinks decaffeinated coffee – not bad – and as they clean the remains of Zola's breakfast from her sweet little face in preparation for the next step of their trip, she thinks about the word _remember._

 _Remember_ takes many forms.

It's something she's watched her husband do, in phases and starts, since their arrival in New York three weeks ago. Remembering his family and his old position in it, refamiliarizing himself with elements of the former life she missed in real time.

You can formalize _remember_ with plaques and inscriptions, journal entries and letters. Days on the calendar are already marked for you in memoriam of approved events.

 _Remember_ is also the scent of something caught on the wind. It's the way she saw her mother-in-law look at Derek when she didn't realize she could be seen, as if the little boy he was still lives beneath his fortysomething frame.

And _remember_ is the way we mark the dead.

It's ritualized, in a hospital, from calling time of death in the OR to passing a gloved hand over a patient's open eyes to restore post-mortem dignity to everything the pathologists do in the morgue that she hasn't had to think too deeply about since her clinical rotations.

And it's ritualized outside the hospital, too.

…

"Are you sure?" Derek asks quietly, not for the first time. They've stopped for iced coffee at a weathered roadside café, lemonade for Zola, and the fortification of sitting for a moment, just the three of them, at a picnic table featuring enough ants to fascinate their daughter.

"Bugs," she says reverently, stabbing at one with a tiny finger and then pouting when it doesn't, as she apparently hoped, crawl up her hand.

"Gentle, remember," Derek says, smiling at Zola and discreetly swiping what's left of the ant from her hand.

"I _do_ remember." Zola leans forward with the focus of a scientist to peer at the line of ants. "I _am_ gentle."

"You are." Meredith strokes her back.

She studies her husband's face for a moment. It's painfully familiar, every part of it, the new corners of his history discovered on this New York trip only solidifying what she always knew: _that_ she always knew.

That she knew him all along.

His question hangs in the air: _are you sure?_

She responds, even if he knows the answer.

"I'm sure, Derek."

He exhales, head tilted slightly.

"She's so little," he says, his gaze on their daughter.

"She'll see grass," Meredith says quietly. "Grass, and flowers."

Derek nods, slowly.

Zola clambers up on the picnic bench then, leaning against her mother. She grips her cup of lemonade in both small hands and, Meredith's palm guiding carefully, takes a noisy gulp and then sighs with dramatic pleasure.

"Is that good?" Derek asks.

"Yeah, really good." Zola beams at him. "You share, Daddy." She thrusts the cup forward and Derek obligingly takes a small sip.

"Mmm," he says.

"Mommy." Zola waits patiently for her mother to repeat the performance.

"Such good sharing, sweetie."

"Yeah." Zola nods, cementing the praise, and then clambers fully to her feet, studying the tabletop with increased interest.

Meredith turns to Derek, one hand supporting her daughter's sun-warmed little body. "If you want us there with you, we're going there with you."

"I do want you there with me."

"Okay, then."

She notices Zola's little brow is furrowed as if she's calculating something.

"Zozo." Meredith smiles. "What are you doing?"

" _Sharing_ ," Zola says firmly, as Derek reaches out seconds too late to keep their daughter from dumping the rest of her lemonade directly onto her insect friends.

…

 _Grass. Grass, and flowers._

It's what Meredith said their daughter would see, on this part of the trip, and as so many times in their relationship … his wife was right.

He's glad in a way that's a weekday, without holiday demarcation, which means some semblance of family privacy.

It means too that Zola can pause to pick a fat yellow dandelion – the child of two surgeons, she might not hesitate even if she knew its possible origins – and thrust it with delight toward her parents before closing it up in her hot little fist.

"It's this way," Derek says quietly, his head close to Meredith's. Her arm is linked through his, Zola hanging onto his free hand with her small and rather sticky one.

"Flowers, Daddy." Zola tugs on his hand. "Look."

"I see." He leans down to lift her up for a squeeze; he can't help it. He wants _this moment_ – he wants all the moments – and this moment includes his daughter's pudgy arms around his neck and her perfect little wide-eyed face when she leans back, her hands on his neck, to smile at him.

Meredith doesn't say anything, just rests her head lightly against his shoulder as they make their way down the path.

His wife was right, it seems – Zola sees _grass, grass and flowers_ , wriggling to get down so she can walk hand in hand with him. On the path, she pauses occasionally to kick her little sandaled feet in the grass and once to pluck a dandelion from the earth. He just smiles at her sweet face instead of thinking about the weed's origins, and she carries the flower in her fist as they walk together.

He has a folded up paper with the directions on it but he finds himself following muscle memory instead. Like so many things on this trip, it is all at once exactly the same and yet completely different from what he remembered.

But there it is, the marker he hasn't seen since he left the east coast. It's bright at this hour; carefully, he crouches down for a better look.

" _Lots_ of flowers," Zola is saying as she points. "Why?"

"People bring the flowers," Meredith says quietly, when Derek doesn't respond, "as presents for someone they love."

Zola considers this and Derek does too; someone has left flowers for his father.

Someone has been here, keeping the site of his grave neatly trimmed, all the time he's been in Seattle. He stays crouched down, resting one hand on the sun-warmed stone.

When he looks up Zola's concerned little face is angled toward her mother. She spreads two small empty palms. "No present," she says.

Meredith draws her close. "We can bring a present next time," she says softly. "What would you like to bring?"

"A bagel," Zola says without hesitation. "And pink cream cheese." She pauses. "And put it _right_ there." She points at the stone.

Derek swallows hard, then glances at Meredith. "I think my father would have liked that."

"Yeah?" Meredith settles down next to him, seemingly undisturbed by where she's sitting – his wife who can appear so physically fragile but is the strongest person he knows. Who didn't blink at the story of his father's death. Zola plops into her mother's lap, smiling up at Derek.

"I should have brought flowers." Derek is feeling a strange pressing sensation in his chest. His mother used to bring flowers, when they visited. On Easter. Was it Easter? Or was it his father's birthday? He stopped going after a while, living in the present instead. A typically selfish teenager. Did his sisters keep going? Not just after Derek stopped, but after he left New York?

They must have; the flowers look fresh.

"It's okay," Meredith says softly.

"Other people brought them." He swallows, glancing at the rows of grey stone. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Here, Daddy." Zola pats his arm. "You can have my flower."

And she presses the wilted dandelion into his palm, warmed from her hot little hand.

He doesn't speak, just kisses her forehead. She pats his cheek with distracted affection, then points to the headstone. "For your rock," she explains.

"Thank you, Zozo." He hugs her closely enough that her warm little body hides his face and for long enough that even his notorious cuddle bug wriggles to get free.

"There," she reminds him, pointing to the stone, apparently not having forgotten the purpose of the flower exchange. "I do it," she suggests when her father doesn't respond.

Derek glances at Meredith. She's watching them, her gaze soft.

"You do it," Derek agrees quietly.

Zola pads forward and stands for a moment directly in front of the headstone. Derek has a brief, painful pang: _if they could have met … ._ If only. Except, there can be no _if_ , not so long as he wants this life he has now and there are no words he can fathom to express just how deeply he wants this life he has now.

"Here," Zola says, and places the flower atop the headstone. She gives it a fond pat. "It's a _nice_ flower," she adds, turning to her parents, both of whom nod in agreement.

Zola minces her way through the grass and flops against her father as if the flower ritual took a lot out of her. Derek strokes her back, marveling at how someone so young can be somehow so wise, and then she tugs on the neck of his shirt.

"Daddy."

"Yeah, sweetie."

She rests her head against his shoulder. "I need a cookie," she whispers longingly.

Derek can't help but smile. "Sounds about right," he says.

He stands with some effort, a palm flat on the grass, his daughter in his arms, and then reaches a hand down to Meredith. She fits hers into his and he hoists her to her feet.

Zola frees one arm from her father's neck to wrap around her mother's and for a moment they stand there, together, across from the headstone with its little yellow dandelion.

"Cookie," Zola murmurs gently, perhaps worried he's forgotten, and Derek buffs her cheek with a kiss that makes her giggle and squirm.

He feels the light pressure of Meredith's body against his.

"It looks good," he says finally.

People have been caring for the stone. For his father's memory.

But, as he hoists his daughter higher and wraps an arm around his wife to guide her along the grassy path, he is also aware that his father is not here … not really.

Meredith would understand this, he knows, having heard about her role in tracking down a missing Viv the night she ran away from Amy.

He holds her a little closer at the memory, and then he brings them somewhere his father was alive.

…

"Daddy lived here," Zola says happily, if not entirely accurately, an expansive gesture of one dimpled arm suggesting her father inhabited the entire realm of the sprawling state park.

"Not lived, exactly." Derek kisses her cheek.

 _Somewhere his father was alive_ – the rocky Connecticut shore where he taught his son to fish.

They stand at the entrance now. Zola is fisting her little sunhat, staring with interest at the large series of maps in front of them, mounted in the grass.

"I used to come here when I was younger," Derek explains to his daughter, "with my daddy."

The word slips out; Derek's not sure he even recalls calling his father that to his face – as the then-youngest and the only boy, he hastened to move to what must have felt like more mature names for his parents. But now, as a parent, he's used to adopting Zola's terminology: Mark is _Viv's daddy_ , Bailey is _Tuck's mommy_ , though he's not sure he'd let Bailey hear him say that.

"Your daddy," Zola repeats thoughtfully. "Where is he?"

Derek feels Meredith's hand on his back – small with light pressure, wordlessly communicating her presence.

He considers his daughter's question. Where is Derek's father?

He's not quite ready to connect the headstone Zola decorated with her prized dandelion to her long-deceased grandfather. Besides, that's not actually where his father is.

The park they're about to enter might be a better answer, but he doubts his inquisitive toddler, for whom "yesterday" is still the only marker of the past, is ready for that sort of metaphor.

Zola is the daughter of two surgeons, her version of preschool a hospital-based daycare where the class goldfish _died_ rather than _went to heaven_ or anything that might pass muster in a different world.

"He died, sweetie." Derek touches her sun-warmed cheek. "A long time ago."

"He died," Zola repeats. She pauses, her brow furrowed like she's trying to think of something. "Lexie," she says after a moment and Derek feels the change in the air next to him.

Zola brings up the aunt she lost as a baby once in a while – she has a toddler's short attention span, living almost exclusively in the moment, but she sometimes likes to kiss the photographs on her dresser goodnight, and one of them includes Lexie. It's a sweet shot of the two of them in the hospital cafeteria and he knows Meredith liked it for its simplicity, Lexie in scrubs and white coat holding Zola on her lap. They're looking at each other, both wide-eyed and wide-mouthed, as if each one is the most interesting person they've ever seen. She knows who's in the picture: _Aunt Lexie_ and _Baby Zozo_.

"Your daddy," Zola repeats, "and Lexie."

"That's right." Derek kisses her head, holding her close for a moment and breathing in the sweet almond oil scent of her hair.

Zola cuddles back for a moment before she pushes at his shoulders. "Down," she says urgently, the almost mystical-moment apparently behind them, and when he sets her on her feet she thumps the signposts with interest, kicking at the dirt and smiling.

When he glances over at Meredith, she's watching their daughter with a soft expression.

"You okay?"

"I'm okay." She tips her head up to kiss him, then pauses. "Your dad and Lexie," she says quietly.

He nods.

"It's … a nice thought," Meredith says.

"It's a nice thought," he agrees. He pauses, an unlikely image swimming up of two unrelated people who came in and out of his life almost thirty years apart.

"It's a nice park." Meredith is studying the large plastic-encased map. "Your father taught you to fish here," she confirms.

Derek nods again.

A slow smile starts on her face. "Maybe he's taught Lexie to fish by now."

…

They choose a trail flat enough for Zola to walk, and she trots obligingly between them with a hand in each of theirs.

"This is where you were in the picture," Meredith says.

"The picture?"

"Mark showed us a picture. The two of you, around Viv's age, with a fish you caught. Well." She smiles at him. "Zola thinks you caught it."

"It was probably a team effort." Derek can't recall a specific picture, but fishing with Mark and his father was a regular occurrence at that age.

Meredith doesn't ask a question, but he answers it anyway: "Mark's parents were … absent,"Derek says after a moment. "He was over at our house all the time."

Mark and Addison, in his memories of both of them, were far more likely to seek validation than Derek. _Pleasers_ , that's what his mother used to say. It makes sense, he supposes, that a childhood of having to source that validation on your own would result in a different … approach, as an adult, but any more analysis on the topic at the time would have pleased Kathleen far too much. And that was enough for him not to probe it further.

Before he can say anything else, they hear the crackling of twigs suggesting they're not alone, just past a clearing is a tall man in a fishing vest and a Patriots hat – Derek winces a bit out of habit. The man is juggling three blond children and they all turn to stare at the approaching Shepherds in a way that looks appraising even from here.

Derek has a moment of fear – then of shame; he's not the sort of coastal progressive who views all rural areas as hotbeds of prejudice.

And then, when one of the children points at Derek's family, calling out, "hey, look at that little girl!" – fear again.

"Afternoon," the man calls out before Derek can do anything, and then turns back to his children, his words audible from this distance.

"See, Macy, you happy now? There are other girls here." The father has that long-suffering-but-enjoying it look he associates with large families. The type who'll call his children _hellions_ … but affectionately.

"Sorry," he says affably to Derek now. "We were having a debate here about whether fishing is just for boys. Macy here claimed she hasn't seen a single other girl in the park."

Macy, who has a fat blonde ponytail and bright pink tennis shoes that seem, based on her gaze, to impress his own daughter, grins at Zola.

Zola, for her part, grips her mother's leg with both pudgy arms but offers the new children a tentative smile.

The smallest one looks about Zola's age, and the little boy regards her with that conspiratorial interest you see in similarly sized children: _hey, I also know what the weather's like down here!_

"Taking all three of them seemed like a good idea at the time." The man looks rueful but not really concerned. "It was their mom's idea. I should have known."

"Nice weather out, at least," Derek says, feeling he's supposed to say something.

"It is. I guess the heat finally broke."

They're interrupted by a scuffle; apparently one of the children _needs_ the other one's apple, which is somehow better than the other.

Meredith and Derek exchange an amused glance. Two identical apples, two differently-sized children, one raging battle: is this where they're heading?

"Sorry," the man says, looking rueful again, once he's confiscated the spoils of war. "Like I said, great idea to take all of them fishing." He indicates Zola. "She's good as gold, isn't she? Well, maybe 'til you have the next one."

He says it easily, but Derek wishes he hadn't, knowing Meredith would prefer more privacy.

"Actually … the next one is due in February," Meredith volunteers, surprising him. "We'll be sure to hide the apples before then."

"Oh, yeah? Congratulations." The man gives them a genuine smile. "And good luck."

They both thank him.

"Maybe I'll see you back here, then," he says, corralling his children. He scoops up the youngest, who grins messily at them from over his father's shoulder. "It's never too early to teach the kids to fish."

…

"Surfcasting." Derek smiles, and she smiles too at the reminiscent pride on his face. "My father used to say Hamonasset was one of the best places to learn to fish. You wouldn't think so, but if you know where to look … ."

" _Where's_ the fish, Daddy?" Zola asks with typical volume. Meredith winces a little, Derek looking equally amused.

Their daughter is wearing her colorful little rubber clogs – _working_ , that's what she says happily when she puts them on, having seen her mother wear them with scrubs. She's also listening very well, and requiring frequent praise for it, when it comes to staying close to her parents.

"The fish are out there, sweetie." He points. "Look in any body of water in Connecticut, and there are bass. I caught a decent-sized striper out here when I was … okay, a little older than you are now."

Zola, apparently unconcerned with Derek's casting technique, tips her face up to her parents', squinting a little into the bright light. "Sunnies, Mama." She pulls at Meredith's hand until she helps her daughter into the pink heart-shaped sunglasses she received from Viv.

Nodding with satisfaction, she thumps Derek's leg. "Daddy. Where's the boat?"

"No boat, Zozo." He scoops her up. "We're surfcasting."

Zola wrinkles her button nose at the new word. "Swimming?" she suggests hopefully.

"… sure, that works too." Derek holds out a hand to Meredith, his other holding Zola close, and wades in shin deep. Waves lap around them and Zola squeals with satisfaction. " _Busy_ lake," she says.

"Ocean," Meredith corrects her, then glances at Derek. "Sound?"

"American schools need better geography," he responds with a frown.

"That doesn't answer the question, Doctor." She smiles up at him and he leans down to drop a kiss on her lips just as another wave hits their legs.

Zola claps her hands. "Put me down?" she suggests.

Meredith glances at Derek. "Is it too rough?"

Zola always wears a miniature PFD when they take her out on the boat at home, and Meredith has been assuming they could find or rent one here.

"We'll go shallower," he assures her, and he doesn't set Zola down on her feet until they're mostly on the shore, just enough water that the wet sand sluices between their daughter's toes and makes her squeal again.

"It _tickles!_ "

"Hold Daddy's hand," Derek reminds her, Meredith hovering behind them – she's not _that mom_ , not usually, but the sound or whatever looks rougher than it did during her glimpse at Mark and Addison's Hamptons house.

Zola squats down on the sand, Derek crouching with her, and when the shallow waves touch her belly she shrieks with delight. Derek is laughing too, protecting her from the water – seemingly not at all concerned with the cast he's left on the shore. Meredith is touched, though not surprised, to see him so purely drawn to experiencing this park with Zola on her terms rather than anything preconceived.

"Again!" Zola orders the sound now and both parents exchange amused glances as the water cooperates with her request.

Even the tides can't say no to their daughter. She shouldn't be surprised.

…

He isn't himself here, in the park.

He is … and he isn't. He feels himself in multiples: his present-day self, enjoying the sight of the beach through his own daughter's eyes, sharing a picturesque piece of his past with his wife; but also his past self. So many of them: the little boy who fished off the shore and the jettys here with his father. Derek's father was significantly younger than he is now on those early jaunts. It's sexist, perhaps – certainly old-fashioned – but he's grateful for what were essentially father-son outings. For that time, those fleeting memories, with a man who was lost too soon.

Often, these outings included Mark – as in the picture Meredith described of a young Derek and Mark beaming over a caught fish. And Mark swam with them – evident the day Derek and Meredith brought Vivian to Liz's home in the country and Viv was familiar with the water games passed down from Derek's father. Those long-ago outings, Mark inclusive, remained father-son. Mark was the closest thing to a brother Derek had. He compartmentalized successfully, for the most part, since moving to Seattle; now, it crosses his mind what his father would have thought of his long estrangement from Mark.

It's too hard to imagine: Derek was thirteen when his father died; he'd never so much as admitted thinking a girl was pretty at that point. His father never formed any opinion on Derek's first marriage, on Mark's role in its destruction, on their rift after Derek left Manhattan. Derek will be 45 on his next birthday; his father never reached that age himself.

He recalls his mother's words, one of the nights they cared for Viv in the temporary apartment:

 _I only wish your father were here,_ she said, _to see what wonderful fathers you are._

Father _s_ , plural.

That his mother could still maintain a glimmer of pride for Mark's paternal accomplishments after all that history spoke to her ability to forgive, he assumed. To her capacious heart and motherly instincts. It didn't really occur to him, that night, that she could have been channeling someone else entirely.

Their father could be … soft, in his recollections, their mother's approach sterner. It was their father who was often deputized to settle wars of words of the type that arise in a house with so many sisters. And it was his father who he can recall tracking him down when he ran away as a boy – nothing serious, avoiding some kind of consequence of childhood daring and clumsiness, he's fairly certain, though he can't remember what. More likely than not, Mark was involved. _Everyone wants to run away sometimes,_ his father said to him that time, settling next to him on the chipped bleachers at the darkened elementary school baseball field.

How right his father was … in ways he could never have imagined that night.

Zola, so small and sweet, cuddly and gregarious, pulling on both their hands now and delighting in the waves – it's impossible to think of her growing older but also unbearable to imagine not doing so.

"Derek."

He glances down. Meredith is looking at him, her eyes soft and her expression gentle. His tendency to mull things over, his need sometimes for silent thought even when otherwise engaged … he came to think of these as flaws, in his first marriage, but they never distanced him from Meredith. There's an individuality to their relationship that strengthens rather than diminishes their couplehood and for that – among so many other things – he's deeply grateful.

"Meredith," he says in return, as she smiles up at him.

Zola, holding both their hands, stomps happily in the ankle-high water between them.

"Your daughter is planning to take half the sand from this beach home in her bathing suit," Meredith whispers.

"Sand washes off." He lifts his eyebrows, then leans down to scoop up their daughter. "What do you say, Zozo, you want to take a dip?"

Zola clutches his neck, eyes bright with anticipation as Meredith whisks off and pockets her little sunglasses.

"What about the fish?"

"The fish can wait," Derek says. He indicates the sun-warmed, wriggling toddler in his arms. "We have a sandy baby."

Meredith grins at him. "We do have a sandy baby."

" _Not_ a baby," Zola says firmly, now gripping the sides of his face with sandy, damp little palms. "I'm big."

"I'm so sorry." He taps her little button of a nose and she giggles.

He takes three steps into the cool water and then turns to Meredith.

"You coming, Mer?"

"I'm coming."

They stand shin deep again, Zola in his arms, the same posture as earlier, but for some reason he feels lighter. The sun glints off the surface of the water and there's indistinct chatter rising from the various beachgoers, intermittent gull calls – nothing different from his recollections of 40 years ago. It could be any time, any place, here, with his family.

"Daddy." Zola tugs on his hair. "Put me in the lake," she wheedles. "Please."

"This is not a lake, Zozo." He kisses the side of her face; she tastes faintly of coconut sunscreen. He turns to Meredith. "This baby – sorry, this _big girl_ – might need to see the ocean more often."

Meredith glances at him. "Then I guess you're lucky she has family on the east coast," she says softly.

Derek looks at his daughter's sweet face, bright with anticipation, and he dips her gently into the cool water and gets a shriek of happiness in return.

"Lucky," he echoes.

Lucky indeed.

…

Zola is sleeping in his arms, worn out from her long hours of sun and sound, as they make their way back to the car. He thought it would be hard to leave the park after so long – but somehow, it wasn't hard at all.

"We can come back," Meredith says quietly as she steps over a pile of twigs. "Do some more fishing."

"Yeah?" He turns to glance at her face, amused and rather touched by the description of their afternoon as _fishing_. The sun is low and orange, signaling the close of the day; there's pinkish light playing on her fair skin.

"Sure." Meredith indicates their sleeping daughter. "I think Zo would be up for a cross-country drive as long as the backseat plays movies."

"Cross-country?" He raises an eyebrow. "That's a lot of movies."

"True."

 _We can come back._

Four very simple words.

Can they?

There are parts of his family here he had started to forget. There's the place where his father took his final rest, and those places where he is still alive.

 _We can come back._

He ponders this, waiting until they're nearly at the car.

"We might need to come back," he says finally, shifting Zola a little in his arms; she doesn't wake, but clings a little tighter in response and he rubs her back soothingly. "You know … there are other landmarks I haven't shown you."

"Landmarks." Meredith looks amused as he frees a hand to unlock the car. "What kind of landmarks are we talking about?"

"Mm – how much time do you have?" Carefully, he buckles a still-dozing Zola into her carseat.

"For you?" Meredith leans against the passenger side of the car, her smile a little too saucy to be sweet but somehow both. "I have lots of time."

"In that case – well. There's the baseball diamond." He closes Zola's door with the utmost care; she remains asleep.

"The baseball diamond." Meredith nods. "The site of your … baseball triumphs?"

"How did you know?" He grins at her. "Actually … I think it's a strip mall now, so that might not work. And there's the house, but my mother would kill me if I took you there without her."

"She could come too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Meredith tilts her head, studying his face. "What about your old school?"

"Ah, the site of my academic triumphs." He opens the door for her. "The early ones, anyway."

"And wasn't there something about hockey?" she asks as she slides into the car.

"The pond," Derek says thoughtfully, "which is probably half mud these days."

"Very appealing."

He shakes his head at her, smiling, and heads for his side of the car.

"My point is," and he opens his side of the car, "there are still a few things left in terms of … Connecticut-based tourist attractions."

She pulls the seatbelt out carefully over the slight curvature of her midsection. "Oh, I see your point," she assures him.

"I thought you might."

Meredith is still watching him, her eyes soft, as he settles into the car next to her and then buckles his own seatbelt. "Can I help you with something, Dr. Grey?" he teases, lifting an eyebrow.

"Not right now, Dr. Shepherd," she says airily, "right now I have everything I need."

"That's good to hear." He turns over the ignition, pausing to catch a glimpse in the rearview mirror of their daughter dozing in the backseat before turning back to his wife. "Because right now … so do I."

* * *

 _ **Thank you so much for reading! This is the last East Coast chapter - we'll have a time jump before the next one and head back to the other coast in time for the baby's arrival. I hope you have enjoyed MerDer's journey back to Shepherdland as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Thanks to everyone who's stuck with this extra long story all this time. I love hearing your thoughts, so I hope you'll review. I'll see you soon back in Seattle.**_


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